


Running Interference

by pjowithbluecookies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (that are hopefully correct), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, America-Centric (Hetalia), Angst, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Crossover, Espionage, F/M, Gen, Government Agencies, Historical References, M/M, MACUSA | Magical Congress of the United States of America, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Ron deserves better, Smart!America, america (hetalia) is actually competent, australia is the boss at magical creatures, brought to you by Russia/America, charlie weasley and australia bromance, magical politics, my poor sweet child, the cold war just ended, the wizarding world can really be stupid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24826909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pjowithbluecookies/pseuds/pjowithbluecookies
Summary: The Wizarding World was still struggling after England's war against the magical terrorist named 'Voldemort', and with the recent terrorist attack on the Quidditch World Cup, he decides not to leave anything to chance again. Against the Ministry's wishes, England prepares for war with his foreign allies: France, America, and Canada. But with Voldemort and his followers not out of the shadows, they are forced to rely on covert operations as they enter the newest revelation of wizarding foreign policy - the Triwizard Tournament.
Relationships: America & England (Hetalia), Canada & England (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 73
Kudos: 131





	1. The Art of Gathering Allies

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so the summary was awful but hello to the brave souls who clicked on this fic anyways! Hope you enjoy. I keep forgetting that Harry Potter happened in the 90s so the tech might not be always accurate to the time period so sorry about that

A World Meeting was just ending. Nations were packing up, some lingering while others rushed off to catch the fastest flight home. Not that anyone could blame them, England thought to himself bitterly as he walked over to Germany.

Germany himself looked frustrated with the meeting. Italy, of course, was fluttering about the irritated nation with vague ramblings of pasta. It didn't seem to improve much of Germany's mood, but at least he didn't look like he wanted to dash out of the meeting room.

England cleared his throat to get the pair's attention. "Germany, I need a favor," he began.

"Yes?" the taller blond sighed to himself. England couldn't help but feel moderately bad for what he was about to ask.

"Do you mind calling back nations with magical governments?"

That seemed to give both of them a pause. Even Italy froze to look at him, making him fidget uncomfortably. "Ve~ why do you want to talk about them? Can't we just get pasta instead?"

"I hate to be the person to prolong these stupid things but," even thinking about it makes England want to slam his head into the wall. He settled for groaning instead "there was a--"

"--terrorist attack during the Quidditch World Cup," Germany finished. He sighed again, probably for the fiftieth time just within that hour, and pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. "I am aware of the event."

"Then why didn't you bring it up before?"

"Why didn't you?"

Ah. Well. He certainly did get him there. Instead of responding, he just sat down in his seat as Germany called for those with wizarding governments to stay behind. Luckily, they managed to catch a majority of them before they left.

"America, that means you too," Germany didn't hesitate to add once everyone saw the superpower make a dash for the hallway. With a lot of open and loud complaints, everyone sat down to continue the meeting that everyone had wanted to end.

There was a laughably smaller number of people sitting around the table than there was the first time. By England's estimates, probably about ten to twenty nations stayed behind.

"England has asked for me to call you all back to discuss the events that had occurred during the Quidditch World Cup," Germany started, bravely taking the responsibility of restarting the meeting up in the face of the many disgruntled nations. "England, you have the floor."

"As we all know," he began, "the international wizarding community is exceptionally small, making up only about fifteen different governments that have manifested under the larger governments of the countries they reside in." He could feel the impatience swelling in this room, especially America's, who was notorious for not getting along with the magical beings of his land (much to England's irritation). "With that said, it makes it even more necessary to talk about the terrorist attack that happened on international grounds."

Silence greeted him, but that only boosted his confidence further. At least he had their attention before the arguments began. "This terrorist attack was initiated by the group called 'Death Eaters'" --everyone could hear America's snort at the name-- "and it was mainly directed towards the mug-- nonmagical residents of that area."

"What country was this in?" India asked calmly as he peered up from the notes he had been writing. At least someone was taking this seriously. He spared a glance at America, who was sitting with his feet kicked up on the table, staring at the ceiling. Honestly.

"England," England calmly answered as mutters rolled down the table. Here we go, England couldn't help thinking bitterly to himself.

"Continue," India said with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

"These actions resulted in mass chaos across the camp where over thousands of wizards were staying, and at the end of the night, there were two people dead--"

"Who died?" America bluntly asked, his feet still on the table. Could he at least pay the speaker some respect?

"A seven-year-old girl, Antonia Akulov, and her thirty-one-year-old mother, Bogomila Akulov--both of Bulgarian citizenship," he answered with a wave of regret. Such loss of life for what? Proving a point? "Now as I was saying… two people were dead at the end of the night, trampled by the crowd, and at least fifteen people non lethally injured."

"Why isn't this news more widespread?" Australia asked from across the table. "I mean, this is pretty significant, right? Especially with so many people there."

"Ohonhonhonhon~ it's because the Angleterre's magical press is known for having biased and censored news," France drawled next to him. England refused to react to the barb, but he stiffened nonetheless. It wasn't his fault that it turned out like that. Plus, he rarely ever had time to work with the magical British Ministry…

"While that may be true," England continued smoothly with many raised eyebrows at the sudden show of maturity, "that is why I'm presenting this to you all now. The nonmagical family that was cruelly harassed was a family of seven and they have all been obliviated of the trauma."

"So why didn't Bulgaria bring this to our attention? Two of his citizens had died on English soil by--presumably--English terrorists, should this not be a joint operation between the two of you?" Egypt questioned. England tried not to wince at the thought of Bulgaria, who had made himself extremely sparse around him nowadays.

"I'm afraid that is something I do not know," he answered truthfully, not particularly caring for the way the atmosphere tensed.

"Where even is he?" Australia butted in his accent thickening with his irritation. He really needs to control that, England couldn't help but critique, it's quite unprofessional.

"I saw him run out as soon as the meeting was over," America surprisingly spoke up. His voice was gruff when he muttered, "I should've done the same."

England cleared his throat to get the attention of the muttering nations surrounding him. "I would think that he is under the orders of her Minister of Magic to not speak about it," he added.

"What?" came America's suddenly interested question.

"As I said, the international magical community is extremely small and almost nonexistent--many of these wizarding communities have entered into isolation only to communicate for sporting events and the like," England continued to supply information.

"That doesn't give them an excuse--" America tried to protest the point.

"Ah ah ah," came Russia's voice from the far end of the table. The nations have put a habit of forcing America and Russia at opposite ends of the table lest another conflict breaks out. And they just got out of the Cold War as well-- "Now that you are interested in this… magical conflict, let's say… you are going to try and control the situation as you always have." England closed his eyes in exasperation. Could those two do anything productive without going through an international landmine?

"Just trying to understand, commie bastard," came the lax reply. But, should someone look at the superpower, they could see that while his body was relaxed, his face and eyes were schooled into calculated neutrality.

"Oh, but I am not communist anymore, Amerika."

"Look and see if I give a fuck."

"You seem rather tense, should we perhaps revisit some things that you clearly want to talk about?" Russia seemed to enjoy needling the already tense nation, and everyone else in the room could feel the room plummet with the strained atmosphere.

"Shut up, Russia," America's blue eyes seemed to burn with anger. From what England had heard, apparently, his boss had ordered him to play nice with the Russian--and he's trying, much to the surprise of everyone else. "No one has the patience for your mind games right now."

"No," Russia replied cheerfully. "Perhaps not. But they always seemed to be in the mood for yours."

"I don't play mind games," was the flat response. And it appeared to be the only response he wanted to give.

"Hmmm," the Russian hummed noncommittally. "Yes, you do." The way that America tensed made everyone in the room uncomfortable. Except for Russia, who looked overjoyed at the fact he was pushing his rival's buttons.

"Why need to get back on topic," Germany announced in a desperate ploy to get back onto England's topic. Magical terrorists, a lovely conversation starter.

"How many 'Death Eaters' were there?" A voice asked softly to the right.

"Eye witness reports say that there were eight or nine at the scene with masks proclaiming their allegiance to the 'Death Eaters' and the dead blood supremacist and terrorist known as 'Voldemort'"-- cue another snort from America-- "and, as you all may know, that same group was responsible for causing one of the deadliest wars in wizarding history that happened nearly twenty years ago." He answered despite puzzling over who had asked the question.

"The United Kingdom's magical civil war, you mean?" France clarified. England couldn't hear any bite to his words but clenched his fists at the thought of it being a civil war.

"I would generally disagree on it being called that, but yes." To him, it would always be known as the war against Voldemort. Against the Death Eaters. Not against his own people. "Now I feel as though this attack shows the confidence of the group once again and how they are, once again, gathering forces and support for their cause."

"So," America began, drawing out the word to an irritating length, "you mean you that another civil war could happen?" That question was met with silence. In that last war, he was granted with no support, seeing as the entire world was preoccupied with America and Russia, and it was a rather nasty point of conflict between him and everyone else in the room.

After a brief hesitation, England finally decided to screw his pride and admit, "yes".

Immediately, Russia stood up with a childish smile. Everyone's eyes were drawn to the movement, especially America's who were narrowed in suspicion. "I'm going to stay neutral in this upcoming war," he declared. No surprise. England couldn't particularly blame him for that even if he wanted to. Russia's magical government had just been reinstated two years ago, along with his centuries-old magical school, and everything was incredibly unstable over there. The last thing they should do is entire a potentially costly war. "I would think everyone else should too. He contained it last time well enough and he can do it again--no use using such limited magical resources on something like this." Before England could even argue the point (if only to convince the others not to follow the Slavic nation's lead), America slammed his feet on the ground and stood up.

"Clearly if he's asking for help from us he must think it's serious," he argued. His blue eyes zeroed in on the Russian before they flickered over to where he sat. "I'll back you this time. You have MACUSA's support."

"Totally wouldn't be, like, the first time America had intruded on someone else's civil war to spite Russia," Poland commented offhandedly. "Plus," he tactfully continued, ignoring America's clenched fists, "you totally don't have the position to declare that with MACUSA--everyone, like, totes knows the rumors."

"Yeah?" America ground out. "Well, I know from experience that civil wars against supremacists and bigots who want to oppress an entire race ends in a bloody mess," he snarled. "I'm trying not to let history repeat itself." With that, he abruptly spun on his heel and left the room with the door slammed behind him.

Everyone was suddenly studiously avoiding looking at Poland, who looked boredly at the door. "What?" he asked. "Everyone was definitely thinking about it."

Russia giggled quietly to himself, making the nations nearest to him lean as far away from him as they could. "Amerika gets so dramatic when he talks about his civil war, da?"

England groaned. He should have known that putting those two together would have ended in disaster, but at least he got America to side with him. And he was the first one. Which is… rather surprising, actually. England figured he would have wanted absolutely nothing to do with this. "When did this become about America?" he suddenly snapped.

Germany cleared his throat, "If anyone else has any other things to add to the meeting, please speak now, or else I'm closing the meeting." He paused before belatedly adding, "if that's all England had to say."

He sent a curt nod in his direction. The bigger blond looked relieved that a larger conflict between Russia and America didn't break out… again.

"I believe that the French Ministry will provide aid against these terrorists," France suddenly said. It was believable that America would jump into such a war without any other information, but France? It seemed unlikely, but it was happening.

"Canada will also help you fight," a voice spoke up to his right. What was his name? England frantically wracked his brain. Canadia? Cainada? Canada.

After that declaration, the meeting was adjourned.

"Well, well, well, Angleterre," Frances purred as he walked out of the board room. "Looks like we will be fighting together once more, oui?"

"Not right now, Frog," England muttered as he continued to walk out of the building. He needed a taxi to go back to his own country--there was a lot of work to do.

"I'm just saying," he continued, grating heavily on England's nerves, "I loathe to lower myself to work with the British Ministry, mon ami, but I suppose we all must sacrifice something. If only we could work out a compromise to settle both of our needs."

"Listen here, Frog--" he snarled, only to be cut off by America's "England!"

France chuckled lowly as they both saw America walking over. "I suppose you must talk to your most enthusiastic ally," he whispered in his ear before he strutted away (but only after the customary ass grab that happens when France is in your close proximity).

"America," England greeted cautiously. All of the previous anger was gone from the younger nation's face, and now it was drawn with its usual smile. "About what you said before you left, I--"

"Don't worry about it," he waved a hand dismissively. "I need you to send all of your reports of the last war to me."

England blinked. This was not what he was expecting when America walked up to him. "What?" he asked curiously.

America scowled in annoyance and impatience. "Dude, it's not that hard to understand. I need all the reports about the last war--clearly, it's connected and stuff. Plus it's not like the magical world has any idea about 'communication' between two countries… I have like noooo information."

"Alright," England said hesitantly. "You do know that they only use newspapers and such?"

Surprise flickered across America's face. "Really?" he asked. "People at my place use technology all the time. They're leading studies about how to combine technology and magic and stuff… you guys don't do that?"

This time, it was England's turn to be surprised. "No," he drawled slowly. "I'm pretty sure no one in Europe has done such a thing."

Something pinged on America's phone, and he was immediately distracted by it. "Hmmm," he hummed noncommittally before glancing up at England. "Dude, seriously. I need all of the files. Can you get it to me by next week?"

"I can certainly try," he sighed, already annoyed with his ally's very small attention span. The other nation began to walk away, probably in search of some kind of transportation. "America," he called after a brief moment of hesitation. "What do you want from this alliance anyways?"

The superpower glanced up from his phone. "We can talk about it when we both get home, Iggy," came the clipped response, and then America turned his back and walked away. England's stomach sank. Obviously, he wanted something. He wouldn't be America if he didn't.

Trying to force his mind off of such things, he turned to his phone to prepare for a ride to bring him to the airport. He had so much work to do


	2. A Date with the Prez

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America has a chat with MACUSA's prez and things go... well?

When America doesn’t have time to buy coffee after a long flight, you know you’re fucked. He practically sprinted out of the John F. Kennedy International Airport and immediately booked it to get a taxi into the city. 

Hell, he didn’t even know what time it was. 

So of course, the smartest thing to do when he’s irritated and jet-lagged is to go into a meeting that can determine the fate of another country. Just another typical Tuesday in NYC. 

“Where to?” The taxi driver asked once the young nation jumped into the vehicle. 

“You know the Woolworth Building?” America asked with his Brooklyn accent coming out in full swing.

“‘course I do.” 

“Take me there.” He couldn’t help but scowl at his own blunt and commanding tone. Usually, he’s much more amiable around his citizens… well, maybe not so much in these recent years--the Cold War really took a toll on the American public what with the Red Scare and such. His frown deepened even more. 

The folks down in Washington called the whole debacle a mass ‘witch hunt’ which sent an equal amount of hysteria down into the wizarding community and it was a downward spiral from there. Let’s just say that maybe America wasn’t in the best of mind. 

But he’s better now. Probably. 

The drive into the city always takes a ridiculously long time. Usually, America is understanding of it but this time it only grates on his nerves further. He wants this upcoming meeting over and done with.

After an hour and a half of agonizing halts and jostles from the traffic, the taxis finally pulled up at the MACUSA headquarters (unknowingly, of course). America paid little to no mind to the pleasantries they both thoughtlessly exchanged as he hastily paid and pulled out his single suitcase from the back. 

Nevermind the fact that he hasn’t even allowed himself the time to store his suitcase in his apartment and nevermind the fact that he looks like hell. He just squared his shoulders and walked into one of his least favorite buildings in existence. 

Immediately, America could feel the scrutiny that passed over him by the stupid amount of wizarding security at just the front door. Gleefully ignoring them, he dragged his suitcase over to the side door that led to the true MACUSA building. 

Once he opened that door, it looked like he stepped into a distinctly separate world (which he definitely did). 

America was too tired for this shit. 

He tiredly trudged over to the front desk, the back of his feet kicking at his suitcase behind him - apparently, he can’t even correctly tote around a suitcase anymore. 

“ID,” the wizard behind the desk demanded, not even sparing a glance up at America. He couldn’t help but huff indignantly as he dug around in his wallet for the correct ID card. 

Secret Service? No.

CIA? No.

Fake ID? No.

FBI? No.

Airforce? Army? Navy? No.

_Why did he have so many of these fucking cards?_

He was apparently taking way too long to find his ID that the secretary at the desk curiously looked up at him. “... problem?” he hesitantly drawled. Clearly, this guy doesn’t want to talk about a random dude’s issue with finding a card in his wallet any more than America does. Thank god this guy doesn’t care.

“Nah,” America said casually. “Just have too many cards to sort through.”

The wizard raised an eyebrow at that but left his reply hanging in the air. As the next thirty seconds passed, he was ready to burn his entire wallet just for the hell of it. Why couldn’t he find his damn MACUSA ID? 

Silence continued to awkwardly pass between the secretary wizard and the nation with only America’s muffled swears filling it in. 

And after another minute of Alfred shuffling through ID cards, dollar bills, credit cards, and even other things - oh cool! Gum! - that he had forgotten about entirely, the annoyed man in front of him had enough. “Alright, kid, maybe you should -” 

He was cut off by America’s triumphant “ _FINALLY!”_ and having a card slammed down in front of him. 

“Well that’s convenient,” he muttered under his breath. America could definitely hear him, and he totally agreed. The man read the extremely small print on his card that specified his position and security clearance - after the initial checking-if-the-picture-is-correct thing. His eyebrows continued to rise as he continued to read the card. 

America would have usually felt bad for the amount of time he’s taking up in this dude’s day, but at this point, he’s too far gone in his misery to care. 

“No-maj expert? American diplomat? Auror Captain?” the man in front of him repeated incredulously. 

“Wait a second,” America snatched the card from the other’s grip. “Huh. Auror Captain. Who would've thought?” Despite his nonchalant exterior, he was stunned. Did this mean that the magical President has begun to trust him more? That would be a first, he thought with a brief snort of amusement. 

America couldn’t help but laugh at the shocked look on the secretary’s face. “You mean you didn’t even know you got a promotion?” the man yelped. 

Right. A promotion. 

Because he was _totally_ a registered auror before. 

“Well, these cards do correct themselves whenever info changes, right?” He shrugged noncommittally. He didn’t actually _care_ that he was now an apparent auror. What use was a position if you were never going to use it? 

Well… there was Iggy’s whole issue that’s probably pretty important… Whatever. One problem at a time. 

The wizard let out a strangled noise before sighing in brief acceptance of this bizarre interaction. “Whatever, kid,” he mumbled under his breath, still staring at the ID as if it were an alien that dropped from the sky (and Alfred should know, he has one at home). “Wand?” 

Here’s the part of checking in that America couldn’t help but hate. “Don’t have one,” he said breezily with a short laugh. Of course, nothing was breezy inside his mind. It was anything but. 

“What?” 

“Yeah,” he shrugged again. “Don’t have one. I was trained by special operations to use wandless magic to be less dependent on a wand.” 

“Why?” the man asked, interested now despite himself. America couldn’t help but internally curse himself. He should’ve chosen a less flashy lie, something less likely to catch the attention of the once disinterested secretary. 

_Whatever_ he mentally shrugged off the mistake. He’s tired and without coffee - it was a good enough excuse for anyone. 

“Just so I could blend in better with the no-majs and stuff. Nothing really special,” he kept his tone disinterested and he knew that the man in front of him would drop it. Should he be worried that he could lie so easily? 

_Nah._

“Huh,” the dude behind the desk grunted. “Well, I need to see proof of magic then.” 

America sighed despite himself but nodded in agreement anyway. He discreetly flicked his fingers, causing the air around them to suddenly start flowing around them like a riptide under the ocean. His eyes narrowed in concentration and a pen was suddenly plucked up from the desk and flew all the way across the room and back. 

He ignored all the different glares on his back as he could hear papers settling onto the floor with curses thrown in the air (verbal ones, not magical). The secretary could only look at America curiously before shrugging his shoulders in a universal _I don’t even want to know._

“You can go in,” the man said gruffly. Briefly, it dawned on America that he didn’t even know his name; and after the headache that the dude was probably forced to endure, he should probably give the guy a tip. He couldn’t dwell on that topic for long as he rushed through the ever-expanding hallways of MACUSA to suddenly reach the President’s office. 

America was probably supposed to be stopped and questioned about what he was doing, but the amount of times he had irritably stormed into the office was probably enough reason for the many witches and wizards to stay out of it. 

America didn’t even hesitate to pound on the door. 

A vaguely irritated “ _come in”_ was issued, and he stepped inside the room. President Victoria Romero was sitting at her desk, looking almost as haggard and exhausted as America. And that was saying something.

She sharply glanced up from the overflowing paperwork to glare at whoever dared to enter her office unannounced. But, seeing as it was him, she didn’t say anything and gestured uselessly to the chair in front of her. 

“America,” she said without prompting, her voice taking on her natural Spanish accent. 

“Hey, Prez,” he greeted unceremoniously. Usually, he addresses his Presidents as ‘boss’, but with the magical world, things are a bit different. They had both come to the agreement that she just isn’t America’s boss. 

Equal footing treated their relationship quite nicely - even if they can never agree on anything. 

He made his way across her office. It wasn’t nearly as famous as the Oval Office down in DC, but it was just as big and grand (with the added touch of magic). He threw himself down into a chair across from her and he couldn’t help but study her. 

America will readily admit that, in some aspects, the social structure of the Wizarding World is leaps and bounds ahead of the no-maj population. That point seems to be proven by the magnitude of females and people of a large variety of races being constantly elected to office. Much like the wonderfully powerful Latina president sitting in front of him. And it was _amazing._

But the utopian image that the magical world seems to be desperate to place up always crumbles when the same issues keep returning. 

It really makes America think that the two worlds are not so irreconcilably different (even if the only commonality between them is social injustice - which was definitely not cool). 

“What was so important that you came here directly from the airport?” came the President’s voice, knocking him out of his distracted thoughts. 

“How did you know that I came from the airport?” He couldn’t help but ask a bit cautiously. 

“I was clued in by the suitcase behind you,” she deadpanned as she looked back at her work. 

“Oh!” He gave a self-conscious laugh. “Well, I just got back from a World Conference.” An eyebrow raise was the only indication that showed she was listening. It also said _‘And?’_ “I gave MACUSA support against the terrorist attack that happened at the World Cup,” he bit out without much preamble.

That seemed to catch her attention. 

“What?” she asked calmly as she lowered the papers in her hand, giving her full attention to him. 

“There was a terrorist attack on the Quidditch World Cup by the Death Eaters,” he cut himself off with a snort. 

“ _America,”_ came the sharp reprimand. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he snickered to himself, “it’s just a kinda stupid name, ya know?” He was met with an impatient glare, so he tried to keep his laughter to himself. Not that it was easy. “Anyways, two Bulgarian citizens died - a seven-year-old girl and her thirty-one-year-old mother - with fifteen other nonlethal injuries.”

“How did this happen?” 

“The Death Eaters - there were like eight or nine, by the way - were magical harassing a no-maj family of seven. Wasn’t told how they were doing it, only told that it caused a panicked rampage throughout the camp that killed and injured those people.” 

“And you decided that that was a cause to give away limited MACUSA resources and manpower?” She asked slowly, glaring down at the nation in front of her. 

America wasn’t entirely quelled, however, as he had an explanation (like he did for most things his actions - of course, no one usually wants to hear them). “The English personification said that this event may lead to a second war against the Death Eaters and that this situation was eerily similar to the one they faced twenty years ago.”

President Romero sighed as she gave him a long hard stare. 

“Plus,” America continued, “it’s not like you guys are dying to have more aurors around. MACUSA is so ridiculously militarized anyways that there’s almost no point for the other departments.” 

There was a long, contemplative silence between the two. President Romero shifted her gaze down to her desk, and America couldn’t help but fidget with the lack of response coming from the other. 

“Fine,” she suddenly said. America allowed himself a large smile. “Since this is an isolated incident, you’ll take a small team of five aurors to the United Kingdom to investigate. You were just promoted to Captain -” 

“Yeah,” America couldn’t help but interrupt. “What’s up with that?” 

“I figured giving you a larger position within MACUSA would give you a foothold in our government,” she answered. If he was going to be honest with himself, he assumed she would brush off the question. “I never assumed how soon you would use it though.” She sighed in exasperation. “How does the no-maj government keep up with you?” 

“A lot of lectures and paperwork,” he answered honestly. He was surprised that President Romero wasn’t doing that already, but he just chalked it up to inexperience with dealing with him. 

“You have a year to find evidence that would allow me to send additional forces across the Atlantic to participate in this apparent upcoming war on the United Kingdom’s behalf,” she said with finality. “Do whatever you feel is necessary, I’m giving you full command of the operation.”

America’s eyes lit up in excitement. He was in charge of an entire team of aurors (albeit it's only five people but _still_ )! In all his years of leading much larger teams and strike-forces in his military career, he was never entirely trusted by MACUSA to lead an auror investigation. Finally!

Noticing America’s growing excitement, President Romero quickly corrected herself. “In complete command _for now._ I’ll have the Chief Auror draw up the best five-person team that we can expend at the moment and I need you to give me an entire report of your plan before you leave the country, do you understand?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered excitedly. He couldn’t help but feel odd for feeling so excited about something in the Wizarding World. Maybe he could teach a thing or two to these wizards!

“You are dismissed,” she finished. America jumped out of his seat, his exhaustion long forgotten and thrust his fist into the air. 

“Yes!” 

President Romero was watching the display with amusement before she called out to America before he could leave the room. “Don’t forget your suitcase.” In a jumbled mess, the nation turned around and grabbed his bag. “Also, America,” she called.

“Yeah?” he answered. 

“I would fill in your team about your… magic situation,” she said vaguely, not quite understanding it herself. A flash of distaste dimmed America’s bright expression for a brief moment before it's gone. He gave an enthusiastic nod and turned to leave. 

“Good luck, Captain Jones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if America is ooc right now (to be fair, the cold war just ended and all the shiz so he's probably still stuck in paranoid-super-spy mode). Also if the magic stuff with America was confusing, don't worry because all will be explained.
> 
> (Also also also... the little joke about America having a fake ID because the American drinking age is ridiculously high was NOT me promoting underage drinking. Let me just put that out there.)


	3. A Black Widow and Captain America Love Child with a Tragic Backstory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where England has a rather enlightening conversation.

The sharp trill of a ringing phone cut through England’s concentration like a knife. He could feel annoyance rising through him as the phone continued to ring on. England had been working on this paperwork for at least four hours now and it seemed that whenever he was getting somewhere something always managed to interrupt him. 

It was irritating, and, quite frankly, he was about to throw the blasted phone through the damn window. 

As he picked up the phone, and answered with a gruff,  _ “what?”  _

“Yo, dude!” America’s loud voice boomed through the device.

“America,” England acknowledged. The younger country had been surprisingly silent the following week after the World Conference even after he had managed to track down files about the ‘70s war against Voldemort.  _ Not even a thank you,  _ he thought to himself with a sigh. 

“So,” America drew out the word  _ much  _ longer than necessary. “Whatcha doin’?” 

“Must you butcher the English language?” England grumbled with a frown. 

He could hear America’s boisterous laugh through the phone. “At least I don’t sound like I have a stick up my ass.” 

“Excuse me!” England responded indignantly. “How dare you!” 

“Just speaking the truth, dude.”

England could only grit his teeth. They had this exact conversation way too many times - not that it was England’s fault, of course. It was the blasted American who always started the damn fights by slighting the English language. 

“Whatever,” he said, dropping the subject for now. He had much better things to do than argue with the childish American. “What do you want?”

“Well, I need to tell you what’s goin’ on, obviously.” England could practically  _ hear  _ the eye roll.

“So? Spit it out, America,” he demanded. “I don’t have all day.” 

“I got promoted to Auror Captain!” the younger nation exclaimed enthusiastically. “Man, let me tell you, it was not what I was expecting. And I didn’t even have to  _ ask  _ either, the Prez just gave it to me -” 

“That’s great,” England could only say tiredly to cut off the excited babble coming the American. “But what does that have to do with me?”

“I get a team of five aurors - apparently some of the best - and we have a year to gather evidence to suggest a larger conflict happening,” America reported. “Isn’t that so cool?! I mean, we get to be spies which is almost as awesome as being a superhero,” he cut himself off with a gasp. “I could be like a mix between Black Widow and Captain America!” 

“Uh-huh,” he could only respond as America continued to talk about superheroes and comic books and spies. 

“So, England,” America finished his rant that England had gladly tuned out. “What’s the plan?” 

“I have an idea,” England admitted. He stared at the swamp of papers on his desk, each highlighting some part of his plan that depended on his upcoming meeting with the one and only Albus Dumbledore. 

“Hit me with it,” the other responded excitedly.

“Well, I have no idea if it will work now. I have to set up some things with a contact.”

“Who’s the contact?”

“Albus Dumbledore,” he answered. Hopefully, America knew who he was, but he had no idea how for the old wizard’s reputation spread.

“The guy that looks like Gandalf?”

England sighed. America is never going to be able to take anything seriously. “I suppose so.” 

“Sweet,” he responded casually. “Why do you want to talk to him?” 

“Because he has an international competition on his school grounds. After what happened at the last international event, I would assume something would happen again,” England tried to explain his thought process. There was also the other reason why he wanted to establish a contact within the school - Harry Potter. 

The poor boy has had a target painted on his back for his entire life, so if they were rising again, he was probably going to be Enemy #1.

“Man, you want us to go undercover at a  _ school?”  _ America whined. “Don’t tell me you’re going to have usage down to look like we’re fifteen or some shit.” 

Well, there goes the plan. “What if I was?” 

“No,” came the blunt reply, all joking gone from the other’s voice.  _ Damn.  _

“Fine,” England sighed. “I’ll figure out how to get us in the school another way.”

“Oh, thank god!” America said, relief extremely evident in his voice. England frowned at his tone. It wouldn’t have been  _ that  _ bad. “Could you imagine me going to class and actually taking  _ tests?”  _ America began to laugh extra loud to emphasize the point. 

“Alright, alright!” England snapped. It really wouldn’t have been that bad, but England definitely would not want to force America on any of those poor teachers at Hogwarts.  _ Maybe it’s for the best,  _ he thought dejectedly. Something probably would have caught on fire. Or explode. “Enough!”

“I mean this is a  _ magic _ school, right?” America continued, not reading the tension in England’s voice (as usual). “My cover wouldn’t last a day considering the fact that I can’t actually do magic.”

England’s train of thought squealed to a definite stop.  _ America can’t do magic?!  _ He screamed internally at the implication as the other just laughed.  _ How?  _ He has such a prominent magical population that it was practically guaranteed that he could do magic. 

“What?” England could only splutter. “Why? How?” He continued to question, his thoughts jerky in his panic. None of his plans would work if America couldn’t do magic! How would he defend himself? How was he placed in command of five American aurors?

“Wait,” America’s laughter slowly stopped as he could hear the seriousness in England’s voice. Or maybe the anxiety induced panic. “I thought everyone knew.”

“Obviously not, you git!” 

“Oh,” his voice turned a bit sheepish. “Well, when Poland mentioned rumors I assumed -”

“That was about you not getting along with MACUSA!”

America laughed bitterly, and England didn’t need to see his face to tell that his usually bright smile disappeared off his face. “Why do you guys think we didn’t get along? They tried to kill me during the 1800s when I walked into the front door and didn’t have a wand!” 

“Oh,” England’s anger cooled. If only just a little bit. “How in the world did you get assigned to  _ Auror Captain  _ if you don’t have magic?” 

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Well, do your best, you idiot!”

“It’s a long story that I don’t want to bore you with,” America continued to try and avoid the question. England could feel his impatience growing. 

“America, explain it to me now,” he demanded. On the other side of the phone, it was quiet. 

After a long hesitation, America said, “I used to be able to do magic, you know… back when I was a colony. But then you left for a really long time during the 1600s, and so ya know how we were living in Massachusettes at the time?”

_ Oh.  _ England realized.  _ Oh no.  _

“Well, I was kinda playing around with it near this town called Salem and got burnt at the stake once a little girl saw me fly around. I could’ve protected myself, but I didn’t want to because they were my citizens and stuff, so I just… let them kill me.” America let out a long sigh. 

“America -”

“I’m not done,” he interrupted. “So anyway after that, I just figured that it would be better for a lot of my citizens to just… stay away from magic, I guess. So I suppressed it, locking that part of myself away so none of my citizens would feel the need to kill me because of that fear of magic.

“And then… after I got my Independence,” America seemed to hesitate before pushing his story forward, “I was visiting New Orleans during the Louisianna Purchase negotiations and we got caught up in the absolute worst tropical storm. Like buildings were getting their roofs ripped up sort of thing; and me and some of my diplomats were in a carriage at the time, so their lives were in danger.” 

England resisted the urge to say ‘ _ my diplomats and I’.  _

“So I just forced all the magic out of me and the wind just stopped. The rain continued pouring down but the wind slowed down so no one was in danger. After that, I could control the air around me without a wand or anything. After a study after the Civil War, MACUSA classified me as a special type of obscurial.”

England closed his eyes in disbelief.  _ An obscurial.  _ Everything made a bit more sense now - America’s aversion to magic, his infamous dislike of MACUSA. 

He gave a spiteful laugh. “They told me that I was lucky to be alive, but the current President at the time told me that if I wasn’t a nation then I would’ve died before I hit thirteen.” 

“America…” England trailed off. How do you respond to something like that?

“It’s fine, England, it happened a long time ago,” America gave a small laugh. “Besides, every hero needs a tragic backstory.” 

“I’m so sorry, lad,” England started, feeling his throat constrict with the guilt that began to slowly pile up. “I should’ve been there. I could’ve stopped it -”

“Dude, seriously, it’s  _ fine.”  _

“No, it’s not! I’m your brother, I should’ve protected you from this!” 

“England -”

“No, America,” England snapped. “I should’ve been there. If I was, you wouldn’t be -”

“I wouldn’t be  _ what _ ?” America snarled over the phone. “Messed up? Magically invalid? Handicapped? I know what it looks like and I am fine! How many times do I have to tell you that before you believe me?” 

“I’m supposed to  _ protect  _ you. How am I supposed to do that when you’re running headfirst into a magical war when you can’t even fire off a single spell?” England shouted into the phone and then there was a sudden quiet. 

“When are you going to treat me like an equal, England?” America asked in a low voice. England’s heart stopped. That same sentence, that same tone - he could almost believe that they were two hundred in the past. Right before the blasted Revolution, before America decided to rip his heart out and leave it on the muddy ground in front of him. “And not just a little brother you need to protect?”

“I do treat you like an equal,” England replied in a cold voice. “I believe I have some business to attend to, America - I’ll call you after my meeting to discuss our plans.” Before America could argue like he always did, he aggressively hung up. 

England slumped into his chair, not even realizing he had stood up at some point in that exhausting conversation. He stared down at the papers on his desk. Profiles on Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter, and so many old Death Eaters sat beneath the framework of his plan - most of which America scrapped in one conversation.

_ Which is probably for the best anyways.  _

But one file still caught England’s eye. The planning of the Triwizard Tournament - his one way into the school that he thought of. 

England couldn’t help but growl in annoyance at America.  _ Damn him!  _ He thought viciously before feeling just a tiny piece of regret. He was stumped. How could he get into the school to observe Harry Potter - the most probable target outside of Dumbledore - and the Triwizard Tournament at the same time?

He huffed in annoyance with only a small urge to call America again. Rumors spread throughout the different nations that America actually made a name for himself in the intelligence game - maybe he could help? 

Just as quickly as the urge started, England snuffed it out with determination to figure it out on his own. 

Pulling up America, France, and Canada’s magical profiles, he scoured for anything that could give him a small way in. He paid maybe a little closer attention to America’s profile - and, with a small stab of disappointment, the study where they found out that America was an obscurial was never mentioned. 

The only thing that all of them had in common was that they were considered to be “diplomats” in their respective countries. France was, surprisingly, also listed as both a Potion Master and the owner of a famous magical restaurant (how the frog had enough time for it he had no idea). Canda was perhaps a bit more expected as he was listed as he was just listed as a Charms Specialist (a perfect job for him, England decided, since the lad had taken up magic rather well as a colony). 

Even with the surprising skills the unskillful frog had, America’s profile seemed to be most interesting. He was listed as a no-maj expert and an Auror Captain.  _ No-maj expert?  _ He couldn’t help but question. 

America had one of the most secretive magical societies in the entire world, but even with its many secrets, it was known for two reasons: their complete segregation from muggles (or no-majs - though England thought the name was rather distasteful) and their entirely militarized government. 

It was rather odd that they had given the job of ‘no-maj expert’ to America, but after their argument, England didn’t want to call him and ask. 

If he would go over his own file, he would see that he was clearly the most decorated of the four. He was the liaison between the muggle and the magical communities of the UK, and that leaves a rather large list of careers or specialties that he doesn’t even use that often. 

Not that he was bragging, of course. The proper gentleman would  _ never _ brag that England had the highest concentration of magic in the world. That would just be rude. 

England glanced at the grandfather clock in this office and it read to be 4:23 PM. He cursed, he was going to be late for his meeting with Dumbledore! Grabbing his wand, he apparated from his office to Hogsmeade. 

He had seven minutes to get to Hogwarts from here. 

God help him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about all the random exposition that I threw at you guys. (And damn that random revolutionary war angst kinda just hit this chapter out of fucking nowhere.) Also no hate on the stories that follow the plot of 'the nations gets aged down to watch after the golden trio' because I think they can be a lot of fun. However, I feel like they're a little overused and that, as nations, they would have a broader set of goals than just dealing with three annoying teenagers.
> 
> See you guys in the chapter!


	4. Dumbledora the Explora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England goes to Hogwarts only to get ridiculously lost... I mean, who wouldn't?

England could barely catch his breath after apparating into the small town of Hogsmeade before he sprinted off in the direction of the castle. He definitely does not want to be late with arguably the most famous wizard in recent history. 

It’s ungentlemanly to run to a meeting of importance, but it would also be extremely ungentlemanly to be late to such a meeting. You can see his conundrum here. 

And, aside from that, he feared that this was  _ way _ too similar to America’s irritating habits of running into a meeting at the last second. (Unless he was there to talk about himself. Then he was practically the first person in the room.) 

Scotland had shown him the path between the school and town once, just to brag about the school’s existence and placement to him and their other brothers, Ireland and Wales. He had given them all a tour of the castle on more than one occasion. England noted that his ego somehow managed to increase each time he stepped foot into the castle. As to how that was possible, no one knew. 

Just above the treeline, he could see the quidditch hoops in the distance from the path he was on. Just a bit further and he would hit the school’s grounds. He cursed the magic preventing him from just apparating into the school. It would make things so much easier. 

Finally breaking free of the path and entering school grounds, he could see the large castle looming in the distance. His only experience with the school was with Scotland breathing down his neck which, by association, made spiteful feeling come to light with the castle in sight.  _ Who even needs a castle that large for so few amount of students?  _ He couldn’t help but scoff to himself. 

England checked his watch and doubled his speed in his alarm.  _ He only had three minutes left! _ He already resigned himself to the fate of walking into the meeting late, but he refused to be anything more than five minutes late. He ran past the quidditch pitch, and in the back of his mind, he admired it. It was a  _ really _ good pitch, it could rival professional ones any day.

He finally made it inside the castle before realizing that he had no idea where to go. The letter that Dumbledore had arranged the meeting had said to meet at his office and that the password was ‘Bernie Botts Every Flavored Beans’. 

Damn Scotland for never teaching them how to navigate his labyrinth of a school. Honestly. And eleven-year-olds are expected to navigate this monstrosity of a castle?

Determined to try to get to the meeting at a reasonable time, he picked a random direction and aimlessly wandered the halls in hopes of seeing a door that said ‘Headmaster’s Office’ or something along those lines.

But it didn’t even seem like  _ any  _ of these doors had labels or plaques or anything on them.  _ How on Earth is anyone expected to get around in this place?  _

Fate just seemed to hate him at this point. This is what he got for fantasizing about killing Scotland instead of paying attention to his surroundings each time he was there. England quickly resolved for no one to ever find out about this, least of all Scotland.

Just as he swore that to himself, he ran into someone in the hallways. The professor, for England, presumed she was a professor (because who else would be at school during summer holidays?), had a rather stern expression on her face but was strangely paired with a distracted look in her eye.  _ Perhaps that expression is just her default one _ , England mused.  _ One would need such an expression to keep in line magical children.  _

He could only grimace in sympathy at the thought. After raising his many colonies, he had quickly washed his hands of dealing with children forever. It was rather ironic that he was attempting to infiltrate a school filled to the brim with them. 

“Sir?” The professor called to him. Her stern expression had melted into one of slight confusion and perhaps one of… suspicion? 

“Yes?” The nation could only respond. 

After a brief hesitation, she asked, “Do you need any help?” Clearly, she had wanted to ask  _ ‘what are you doing here?’  _ To top it all off, her accent was Scottish. 

Not that he had anything against Scottish people, he had found many to be lovely people (unlike the personification himself - go figure), but it just reminded him of his current agony. 

“Ah, yes. Could you point me to the direction of Professor Dumbledore’s office?” Under her scrutinizing gaze, he suddenly felt very self-conscious. Was he supposed to say Headmaster Dumbledore? Or Albus Dumbledore, considering as he was never a student here?

But the Scottish Professor’s stern expression softening once she saw his apparent distress, and it relieved and irritated him. He was not a child to be pitied! 

“Of course,” her lips quirked up into something of a smile, cutting through her previously stony expression. “You are quite far away from there, so it was a good thing we stumbled upon each other, Mister…” 

“Kirkland,” he filled in. “Authur Kirkland.”

“You are obviously not from Hogwarts,” she mused while they walked at a brisk pace through the castle. “If you don’t mind me asking, where were you taught magic?” 

“I was, uh,” he stuttered. Memories of faeries and long candle-lit nights flashed through his mind. “Homeschooled.” 

The professor cut him a side-long glance and he could only hope he didn’t look like he was lying. Because he wasn’t. Technically. “Then I welcome you to Hogwarts, Mr. Kirkland. It truly is a spectacular school.”

“It seems to be quite the school. Even if it is a bit of a labyrinth,” England joked lightly. “What class do you teach, Professor…” 

“McGonnagal,” she supplied. “How did you know I was a professor?”

“Well, who else would be at a school during the summer holidays?” 

Professor McGonagall gave a tired smile. “Too true, Mr. Kirkland, too true,” she murmured. “As for the class I teach - transfiguration.”

“Transfiguration is an extremely hard subject. You should be proud to have such a position in your field,” England complimented with a small smile. While jinxes and curses would forever be England’s favorite type of magic, transfiguration did endear the Englishman in certain ways.

But he could never get it quite right, which is why he was impressed with the witch walking next to him. 

“Thank you, Mr. Kirkland.” The stern (but now seemingly kind-hearted) professor led England through so many turns and corridor changes that it made his head spin. He needed a bloody map. “If I may ask, what business do you have with Albus?”

That is something even England didn’t know. Multiple answers flew through his mind but he couldn’t settle on any of them. Should he say Ministry Business? He wanted a teaching internship? Something in regards to the Triwizard Tournament?

After a long hesitation, he went with “Some foreign wizarding communities have become interested in the school, so I’m here to discuss a possible student transfer program.” He closed his eyes in relief… he hadn’t completely screwed up and the lie made sense. England gave himself a mental pat on the back for his accomplishment. 

“Interesting,” mused McGonnagal. The rest of the walk through the castle was exchanging mindless conversation between the two before the professor pulled up to a large gargoyle. “Bernie Botts Every Flavor Beans,” she called out to it. Suddenly, the statue moved to reveal a spiral staircase.  _ So that was what the password was for.  _ “This is where I leave you, Mr. Kirkland.”

“Thank you so much, Professor McGonagall.”

“Anytime,” she gave him a brief smile (how an expression could be so small yet hold so much warmth was beyond him) and disappeared into the castle’s corridors. 

He managed to take one small step onto the staircase before something vital caught up to him.  _ He forgot his damn papers.  _ He swore loudly, and suddenly grateful that the stone walls were empty, save for the moving paintings on the walls. 

_ “Watch your language young man!”  _ One reprimanded. 

_ “I like this one!”  _ came another with a laugh. 

Dimly, England wondered where they were when he was mindlessly ambling through the halls like a fool. Laughing at him probably. 

Steeling himself for possibly one of the worst meetings of his life, he started to climb upstairs to the old wizard’s office. He had absolutely no plan, no information with him, nothing. He continued up the stairs until he reached the door at the top. England raised his fist to knock on the door but hesitated. 

_ What are you so afraid of?  _ He berated himself.  _ You have faced way worse things than an old wizard that looks like Gandalf! _

He blamed America. How could he not? If he hadn’t had that blasted conversation, his plan wouldn’t have been ripped to shreds, he wouldn’t have forgotten his papers. With that indignant anger, he pushed himself to knock on the door. Maybe a bit too harshly. 

A cheerful  _ “come in, Mr. Kirkland!”  _ came through the door, and England stepped foot into the strangest office he had ever seen. And that includes America’s, whose office looked more like a comic convention than anything else. Or Australia’s - the lad had covered his in enough of his creatures to resemble a zoo. 

Dumbledore’s office was a cross-mix of a library, antique shop, and laboratory in one. There were so many magical tools (including, England noted with a bit of jealousy, a Pensieve) that were just as useful as they were priceless. There were books scattered around in odd places - some holding things up, others nonsensically placed around the headmaster’s desk, and bookshelf. 

There was even a phoenix perched on the top of the bookshelf! 

“Is my office to your liking, Mr. Kirkland?” Dumbledore’s amused voice washed over England, knocking him out of his observations. 

“Yes, sir,” England replied, wowed by his surroundings - even his dislike for Scotland wasn’t enough to diminish the feeling. 

“Please have a seat,” the wizard said pleasantly. His eyes gleamed an emotion that England can’t quite pinpoint - but there was something familiar about the gaze. He tried to think of where he could see have seen something like that before (because Dumbledore’s eyes truly were electrically bright) but struggled to come up with anything other than a sense of deja vu. “Would you fancy a biscuit?” 

England hesitated to take it. Of course, he wanted one, but did he dare take one during an important meeting? Does this mean that Dumbledore doesn’t take him seriously?

“They’re very good,” insisted the older man (older if only in appearances). “Sugar snap, my favorite.” 

“Well, in that case,” England quipped lightly, picking up a biscuit from the plate in front of him. 

“I must confess that I have been wondering this since I first received your letter, but you don’t happen to be Alistair Kirkland’s brother, do you?” 

England tensed and dropped his gaze from the wizard’s strange eyes to the biscuit in front of him. “Unfortunately,” he grumbled.  _ Damn Scotland _ , he thought again for the second time in thirty minutes. 

“Ah,” Dumbledore murmured. “We’re good friends, but I apologize for bringing him up if he is a sore subject.” 

“It’s fine.” England tried to dismiss waves of irritation swirling in his mind. England ate the biscuit, and it was delicious, but he definitely didn’t want to grab another one in front of the man. 

“As for why you are here, I am rather confused because your letters were somewhat vague.”

England swallowed nervously. Well, it’s time to make everything even more vague. “I apologize for the inconvenience,” he started. Despite his nerves, his voice was smooth and clear - something he was forced to pick up after centuries of speeches and meetings. “Plans were still in the making, but I had to get a hold of you as soon as possible. I thought it would be hard with all the Triwizard Tournament planning and such.”

“How did you know about the Triwizard Tournament?” England couldn’t hear an accusation or see it in his eyes, but he could somehow feel it pulse through the air. 

“I’m with the Ministry,” England replied somewhat honestly. He  _ does  _ have affiliations with the British Ministry of Magic, but he wasn’t working with them right now. The best lies have a semblance of truth after all. 

“I don’t suppose I could see an ID?” The old wizard’s tone did not change, but England could see the tiniest shift in his unreadable eyes. Suspicion. Or blatant distrust.

England’s pulse picked up as he searched his pockets for his wallet.  _ Please  _ let it be in there and not on his desk where he left everything else, he practically begged to the heavens. Opening his wallet, he could see with barely concealed relief that it was in there - still sloppily misplaced from the last time he had hastily thrown it in there. 

Handing the card to Dumbledore, he could see his eyes X-Ray the card. As if he were the one under scrutiny (which, in a way, he was), he shifted slightly in his seat nervously. 

“Diplomat?” Dumbledore asked curiously as he gave the card back to him. “You look young for such an esteemed position.”

“Thank you, Professor Dumbledore,” England thanked with a smile.  _ If only he knew…  _ “Actually,” he said after a slight pause in the conversation, “that’s why I’m here.”

A smile spread across Dumbledore’s face, erasing the one emotion England could decipher from his expression. The wizard had a great poker face. It still somewhat irked the nation that he couldn’t identify where he got the sense of deja vu from when he looked at the man’s eyes, but he brushed it aside. “Oh?”

Taking this as a cue to go on, England nodded. “Some foreign countries have…” he hesitated but remembered what he said McGonnagal and used that as a starting point. “... become interested in the Hogwarts curriculum - after all, sir, it is known to be the best in the world.”

A little flattery never hurt anyone. 

“Why?”

Alright. Time to leave it vague and come up with a plan later. “I’m afraid I don’t know, sir,” he said with a shrug. Another half-lie - half-truth. He had no idea what he was doing. 

“Do you know you know why they used you to contact me instead of using a direct line of communication?” Even while he was questioning, his voice was warm and soothing, but his eyes had become cold X-Rays. They were looking for flaws, that much England could see. Flaws in his story. Flaws in him. Just… flaws in the situation. 

“Well,” he began, “they had wanted to send in diplomats to observe the school, and I was to set up the logistics of it all with me observing the school as well.” 

The story felt rather flimsy to him, but he was sure if Dumbledore had owned MACUSA or the Canadian and French ministries, they would have assured him that that was the truth. But if Dumbledore went to Minister Cornelius Fudge instead, the plan would blow up in their faces. 

Hopefully, Albus Dumbledore’s hesitant truth of the British Ministry would make him less inclined to question it with them. 

The silence became deafening all of the sudden, and England impulsively took another biscuit off the plate in his stress. 

“Perhaps I could understand other countries, but why have you come?” 

_ So I make sure your school doesn’t blow up.  _ That could have been a correct answer. With France and America under one roof, things usually get set on fire randomly (though America swears that it’s Canada that does it). 

“I was homeschooled,” England blurted out instead, thinking of what he had said the Professor McGonagall during the walk there. “They felt that I would have a different perspective.” 

“Hmmm,” Dumbledore said. “What countries would be interested in doing this?” 

“France, Canada, and America. It would be a great opportunity do to it this year with the Triwizard Tournament.” With a wave of regret, he wished that he could have some different countries to list off to the man. Specifically Norway and Romania. But, alas, internal affairs practically barred his friends from assisting. 

Dumbledore hummed again and took his X-Ray eyes off of England to snag another biscuit off the plate between them. “It sounds like an interesting opportunity,” he agreed. “But I would like to meet these representatives before I agree to anything final.”

Those eyes were on England again, and instead of feeling nervous, he just felt vaguely frustrated and confused. Where had he seen that look before?

“That sounds reasonable,” England replied diplomatically despite his reservations of the idea. “I could have them come by next week - same day, same time?” Hopefully, his house of cards doesn’t fall immediately once the others are put in the equation. 

“Sounds lovely,” Dumbledore said warmly before standing up. “Until next week, Mr. Kirkland.” He offered his hand to shake, and England took it out of courtesy. Despite his old age, his grip was strong. “I wish you a pleasant evening.”

“You too, sir,” he replied robotically and left the office. When he stepped off the spiral staircase, he realized that he still had no idea where he was going. This time, as he learned from his mistakes, asked one of the paintings if they could lead him to the outside. 

It was only when he got home that he finally remembered what Dumbledore’s eyes reminded him of. 

They reminded him of America’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> France and Canada will finally make their reappearance in the next chapter I promise! To everyone who has left a review or kudos on this story, thank you so so much!! (Also my America ass had to go back and edit cookies to biscuits so fun times here)


	5. ALLIES UNITE!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally get to see Canada and France!

_ It was fine _ , England tried to rationalize to himself. _No one would want to talk to the person they just had an argument with._

So, with that always-true-and-never-wrong logic, it was perfectly alright to not talk to America for the entire week leading up to their meeting with Dumbledore. The younger nation had been calling him constantly since they had last talked, and England had been diligently dodging the said calls. 

When he had gotten back from his meeting at Hogwarts, he had called both France and Canada to inform them of the new arrangements (that he had made without any of their input, France had not hesitated to point out). He had also made sure that Canada would tell America what was going on. Why call him when there was nothing else to say between the two of them?

He had proudly perfected the art of avoiding someone long ago. He refused to admit that it was pathetic. Of course, he wasn’t pathetic! He was just… minimizing arguments. 

Awaiting (read: dreading) the arrival of his guests, he paced throughout the house and mindlessly ran through what little plan he had left. The one week that he had given himself to come up with a plan was entirely wasted on random bits of paperwork he had to finish. He had no more details than the last time he saw the old wizard!

_ Perhaps Dumbledore won’t press _ , he tried to calm his nerves,  _ once he sees the other three he’ll take pity on me.  _

_ Or,  _ a traitorous part of his brain fretted,  _ what if he goes to Scotland - you know how much he likes to screw you over - or maybe he’ll go to the Ministry of Magic which is even  _ worse.  _ Maybe America or France will say something wrong and it all goes down the gutter -  _

Suddenly, a loud  _ CRACK!  _ echoed through the house. It was either a gunshot or the appearance of other nations. He almost hoped for a gunshot (unless America behind it - God knows he had too many guns in his possession). 

But a voice cut through all of his desperate delusions that it was just a mere gunshot. “Well, hello,  _ Angleterre.”  _

France. Of bloody course. 

“Frog,” England unceremoniously greeted. “You could have at least appeared  _ outside  _ and knocked on the damn door.”

“I thought it was rather unnecessary,” France replied as he fluttered about England’s house. “We are friends,  _ oui? _ ”

“We have very different views of what friends are.”

“Hmmm,” France hummed and cast him a judgemental look (which he did not appreciate). “I suppose so. Tell me, how long has it been since you talked to your make-believe friends?” 

“They are not  _ make-believe, _ ” England snarled in retaliation. “And I’ll have you know that I had a pleasant discussion with Captain Hook yesterday over tea.”

France let out a disbelieving laugh which grated on his nerves way too much. “You have not changed since the first time I saw you running around in the forest.”

“If something you call pretend can hold a better conversation than you, something’s wrong,” England replied scathingly. 

France bristled at the insult. “They aren’t real,  _ Angleterre _ ,” he said with finality. England fumed. Wales, Scotland, and the Irelands can see them too - no one calls them crazy! “But of course  _ you  _ would like to hold a conversation with yourself,” the longer-haired nation added after a brief pause. 

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” England shouted. 

“You’re rather narcissistic like that, aren’t you? No one can hold a candle to the mighty England, so you just have to have a conversation with yourself to exchange wit at your level,” the other sniped. 

“What the - look at the pot calling the kettle black!” 

“So you don’t deny you’re narcissistic enough to have a conversation with yourself?” 

Steam was practically billowing out of England’s ears. He could feel his face flushing and his hands curling into fists. “You little -” 

Their argument was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. “Open up!” he could hear America shout from the other side of the door. With a haughty sniff, France turned around to open the door. On the other side, the North American twins stood, both looked notably tired and frazzled. England could dimly remember they took a plane across the Atlantic to avoid splinching. “Oh, hey, France! I guess that’s why we could hear yelling!”

America and Canada had to step around France to get inside the house after that initial greeting. Canada may have said something, but he was probably too quiet for England to hear from the other side of the room. The quieter of the duo was wearing an oversized hoodie with the Canadian flag on it (despite it being summertime) and America had worn his usual bomber jacket. They both looked to be college students instead of esteemed diplomats - hopefully, Dumbledore didn’t mind the unprofessionalism. 

England then noticed that Canada had brought his polar bear along. What was its name again? He knew his nickname was Kuma but what was its full name…? 

England quickly shook off that train of that. A bear’s name didn’t matter - what did matter was how Dumbledore would react to the animal. 

“Hello Canada, America,” he greeted cordially. America didn’t seem too annoyed that he had dodged all of his calls, so that was good. 

“Hey, dude!” he greeted as enthusiastically as ever. “Thanks for returning my calls, by the way,” the nation continued sarcastically. England’s hope that it wouldn’t be brought up crumbled. 

_ Just like the original plan (that would have definitely  _ worked _ ) _ _ after America’s interference,  _ he thought mournfully. France just seemed content to watch in amusement (as he always did when he and America began fighting).

“We should head to the meeting, right?” Canada asked, quietly but swiftly ending the tense silence that reigned over the house. England checked his watch.  _ 3:36 PM.  _ They had a little under an hour before they had to leave. 

“We have an hour,” England informed them. “We need to talk about our cover stories.” With that, he swiftly turned on his heel to lead them to his study where all his half-formed plans lay in the rubbish. Behind him, he could hear France striking up a conversation with the twins. 

“How was your trip?” 

“Eh, it wasn’t bad. Apparating was tricky, though. America refused to apparate by himself, so I had to do all the work,” Canada teased. 

“Not fair,” America playfully whined in response. “I never got my license!” England gave a slight pause at that. America had told him he couldn’t do magic at all - excepting the strange wind powers that he needed to see himself to honestly believe - but he was talking as if he  _ could  _ do magic. Why? Did he not tell Canada or France anything? 

If so, that needed to change quickly. 

“No one cares about that,  _ mon ami.”  _ He could hear France’s smirk from behind him. America, to his credit, wasn’t deterred by the teasing. 

“Pshh,” the superpower scoffed. “At my place they totally do! I’ve only been Captain for two weeks, and somehow I’ve already been roped into doing paperwork for five different cases about license-less apparition.” America continued to complain loudly, and England had to smother a smile. America was still America.

He could hear Canada snicker at his brother. “Man, don’t laugh! It’s a real problem!” 

“Sure it is, Al. Whatever you say.”

England was suddenly faced with the door of his study, to enthralled in the conversation happening behind him to notice until now. He went inside and leaned against his desk to observe the other nations as they filed into the room. Not ready to put their argument behind them quite yet, he glared at France, who returned the sentiment easily. 

“So?” America began, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his hands stuck inside his pockets. “Cover stories and stuff?”

“Ah,” England clear his throat. “Right.” 

“ _ Oui _ , I am sure  _ Angleterre  _ has a solid plan for us to rely on,” France said sarcastically. America, not picking up the tension between the two (as usual), clapped his hands together and headed for the files on his desk.

He wasn’t sure if he was more surprised or annoyed that America decided to rifle through things on his desk without a second thought. Probably more annoyed.

America seemed to be looked for something specific, and as the papers rustled around the desk, some fell off and others were scattered in completely unorganized files. 

Annoyed. He was definitely more annoyed. 

And after all that, he didn’t seem to find what he wanted and backed away, leaving England’s desk a mess. “Thank you so much for that, America,” he gritted out. 

America’s “no problem, dude” seemed to be one of the biggest fuck-you’s England has had in a long time. Or maybe he was just picky about certain things - like his workspace. It was common knowledge that his workspace is borderline sacred and that  _ no one _ should go through it unless that wanted a sword going through them. 

“So I heard that we’re posing as diplomats?” Canada intervened. 

“Yes,” England started. His voice was notably calmer as he began to give his half-baked plan a try. “We’re going to be posing as diplomats who were sent by our different countries to study the Hogwarts curriculum because they are, unfortunately, the best in the world.” 

America loudly scoffed. “Hogwarts is the best… yeah, right. Ilvermorny is better!” 

“That,” England pointed out, “is exactly what you aren’t going to do. Plus, you didn’t even  _ go _ to Ilvermorny, how could you say it’s better?”

“Because I was forced to tour it, and it’s American - which automatically makes it better!” France and Canada raised an eyebrow at that (England shuddered at how alike they could act at times). 

“Putting that aside…  _ Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons _ is far superior to any of your schools.”

And thus an argument broke out between the two. England held his tongue, mainly out of principle. Who was he to argue against the bashing of Scotland’s beloved school? In the end, the argument was settled with the agreement that Ilvermorny and Beauxbatons were much better than Hogwarts. 

Canada didn’t even appear to try to jump into the argument as his school was rather small compared to the other three nations. Canada had also once told England that it was more of a tradition to teach magic at home rather than at a boarding school so that probably didn’t help.

“Now that that’s settled,” England attempted again. “You need to  _ try  _ to act civil and professional in this meeting because Dumbledore still hasn’t agreed to host us yet.” 

He ignored America’s  _ ‘no fun’  _ mutterings and tried to continue. 

“Since you know your governments better than I do, I’m giving you the liberty to make up a reason as to why they are suddenly trying to expand or change their own curriculum to match Hogwarts. You also get to make up the reason you were chosen instead of someone with an actual background of teaching.”

“So,” France drawled. “This is basically us bullshitting out way through this meeting and hoping nothing goes wrong?” England wanted to argue, but… he wasn’t exactly wrong. 

“Sounds fun!” America said brightly. “It’ll be like acting, and the hero is great at acting!” He flashed blinding Hollywood smile to prove the point. 

“But,” Canada muttered, nervous at the idea. “This is  _ Albus Dumbledore,  _ the greatest wizard of the last thousand years.” 

“It’ll be fine, Mattie,” America tried to assure his twin. The other gave a weak smile and held onto his bear even tighter.

“What’re we going to do about the bear?” England had to ask. 

“His name’s Kumajirou,” America needlessly supplied. “And I’m sure Dumbledore won’t mind if my bro holds onto his bear during the meeting.”

“Again, we need to look  _ professional -” _

“I am sure Dumbledore wouldn’t mind,” France interrupted with a gentle smile in Canada’s direction. “Plus, these wizard types always have an owl or a cat or something around.” 

“Like a frog,” England couldn’t help but snipe. “But I heard they’re only particularly useful in a potion.”

“Or maybe it’s just because they make such irresistible company.” 

“Oh, I very much doubt that.”

“Dudes,” America interrupted as he checked his watch. “Don’t we have to walk there?” 

“Yes, America,” England tightly answered as he continued to glare at France. France had no problem glaring right back. 

“Then we should probably get going right now.” 

England hastily checked his watch himself and realized he was right. But now England was terrified. America was acting like the responsible one in the group. That was definitely not good. “Alright,” England grabbed his wand. “Everyone apparate to the Hogsmeade Village - preferably out in front of the Three Broomsticks.” He hesitated before asking, “Canada, do you want to do side-along with America or do you want me to do it this time?” 

France immediately disapparated after England finished speaking. Both America and England stared at the soft-spoken nation who averted his gaze and stared at Kuma’s head. “Oh. It doesn’t matter to me,” he said indecisively, refusing to look at either of them. 

America swiftly intervened and made the choice for his brother (who would usually look a tad peeved, but now he just seemed grateful). “Well, since Canada has Kuma, I guess I’m riding with you, old man.” 

Instead of granting him any type of response, England just grasped at the taller nation’s arm and disapparated. 

They suddenly appeared in a completely different setting. Canada appeared with a loud  _ CRACK!  _ right on top of where America was standing. Taken by surprise, both brothers went down with identically loud yelps. 

“Bro,” America groaned. “Why?”

“You deserved it after you forced me to apparate with you and Kuma,” Canada said with a smirk. He suddenly seemed much more calm and confident than two seconds ago. 

“Maybe you should lay off the pancakes then.” America made a show of checking for any bruises with a smile. 

“Please,” Canada snorted. “That’s a bit hypocritical.” 

America gasped in mock offense. “Rude.” 

He looked away from the sibling banter and scanned the area for France. Where the devil even was the frog? 

Just as he thought that France turned the corner and seemed to sigh in relief before jogging over to where they were. 

“Wherever did you end up apparating to?” England snorted in amusement as France looked somewhat disheveled. 

“Someplace called Hogshead?” France shook his head. “It was not fit for someone as beautiful as me.”

“Was it a potion shop?” France replied to that by sashaying away while flipping him off over his shoulder. Classy. “Wait. What it really?” England caught up to him with a laugh.

“Do you ever to the hint to shut up?” France rolled his eyes. “But no, it was not. It was some sort of grimy pub.” 

“Nice job, frog,” England grinned at France’s obvious annoyance. 

“Amer - Alfred, Matthew!” France called, switching over to their human names as they both saw other people wandering around the streets. “Come on! We are going to be late!” 

Canada’s soft call of “coming” was overridden by America’s boisterous laugh and “yeah, yeah”. The twins jogged up to them, both of them remarkably unbothered by the heat in with their jackets and jeans. 

“Are you two not hot?” England asked curiously. 

America grinned. “It’s really not that hot out here,” he stated. “You sure it’s summertime? It feels more like fall in the south.”

Canada just shrugged. “I visit Al too many times in Florida during Christmas for it to be too much of a bother.” 

The group walked along the path that England had sprinted down a week ago, and he was rather glad that he didn’t have to relive the experience. He also knew to ask the paintings where to go now, so he wouldn’t waste twenty minutes getting lost inside the huge castle. 

They walked past the quidditch pitch and was so grateful that Scotland wasn’t there to see America and Canada gape at any part of his school. 

“Woah,” America gasped before frowning. “How do you guys have the budget for that?” 

England shrugged uselessly. “I have no idea - you’d need to ask Scotland.” 

America muttered about “pretentious wizards” and “ridiculously rich parents”. France coughed into his fist. 

“I assume that Ilvermorny is not up to these standards?” he asked with a smirk. America quickly scowled and denied it. 

“We just don’t have enough money for a professional-grade pitch!” 

“Shame,” France obviously pitied. “Beauxbatons has such beautiful lands  _ and  _ a pitch as magnificent as this.” 

America just gritted his teeth and said, “We spend our money on better things.” 

France gasped in offense. “ _ Mon ami,  _ you mean you do not care for quidditch?” America’s frustrated expression morphed into one of confusion. 

“Not particularly…” he trailed off as he saw the horror on England and France’s faces. Canada just stood next to his brother, equally as confused.

“What do you mean you don’t like quidditch?” England screeched. It was the best wizarding sport out there! How could Americans (and Canadians for that matter) not appreciate it? 

“Well, I guess it’s ok - like, I have a national team and stuff - but no one really gets into it.” 

“Are you talking about the same Americans who get so obnoxious over your version of football?” France wondered aloud. America grinned. 

“We just have better sports, I guess,” he shrugged and kept walking. Canada walked beside him, holding Kuma closer to his face in the attempt to cover up his laughter. England and France struggled to come up with the concept of such a thing. Better wizarding sports than quidditch? Definitely not possible, England determined. 

“What sport could possibly be better than quidditch?” England demanded once they caught up to the twins. 

“Dueling,” was all America offered. 

“Hockey,” Canada answered. 

“Hockey is a muggle sport, Canada,” England said, rolling his eyes. “We’re talking about magical sports here.” 

“There’s a magical version of hockey!” Canada argued. “It’s great - the ice and skates are charmed so the players go so much faster, and it’s also allowed for someone to hex you from the audience in the middle of the game so there’s that added touch.” England and France stared at the Canadian. 

To England, that sounded like a death trap. 

“I mean, it’s not uncommon for a player to come out losing a hand or something because the skates are so sharp and the ice is so slick - but usually the healers can fix them up before the damage is too permanent. And when you score a goal, fireworks are shot up!” 

“Yeah, I played with Mattie once and it was awesome!” 

“Hockey is definitely better than quidditch,” Canada finished his rant. England had a feeling that he probably had more things to say, but kept quiet to discourage another rant from the usually quiet nation. 

“But dueling is illegal,” France pointed out, bringing the conversation back to America’s sport.

“Unsupervised dueling, sure,” America agreed. “Though it’s definitely not uncommon to see underground rings in bigger cities. But usually, it’s more like a mix between boxing and fencing in the Olympics,” America tried to explain. “There are different variations, but usually people get on a strip and go for three rounds. Each time someone falls to the ground and doesn’t get up after three seconds the other gets a point. Best out of three wins and everything. Some spells are banned and stuff, like dark magic, but other than that it’s pretty simple.”

England huffed, still not over the opinion that other sports could  _ possibly  _ beat quidditch. He knew his brothers would agree - and that says something because they can’t agree on anything. England glanced at France, and he could see that he agreed with his sentiment. 

“There’s also the Capture the Flag versions that Ilvermorny also does,” America continued. “And Capture the Flag is pretty self-explanatory, but it’s really fun - especially because it’s a team sport."

“But America,” England began, attempting to gain some quidditch-is-better-ground. “You love flying - the whole sport takes place in the air!” 

“Well there are other sports that fly in the States too,” America shrugged. “I just think quidditch either goes on for too long or the game is too short.”

“What are the flying sports?” France asked as they walked into the castle. 

“I mean they’re usually with magical creatures,” the North American began. “Like the big one is Thunderbird Racing where you have to bottle lightning as fast as you can."

“Or that weird gymnastics things where people do flips suspended fifty feet in the air,” Canada jumped in. 

“Yeah, but I don’t know what that’s called though.” 

“ _ Mon Dieu,”  _ France whispered beside England. “Your people are insane.” 

“Or just different,” America argued. “At least we have variety - literally, the only sport magical Europe plays is quidditch.”

“It’s because of the culture,” England snapped. “That game has been around for years!” 

“Remember that time when your game literally caused an entire species to go extinct?” Canada innocently asked with a hint of a smirk on his face. 

England could only glare at them as he had to ask a painting for directions. 

“Oh, yeah,” he heard America agree with a laugh. “Australia lost his shit when he heard about that.”

“That was an accident,” France rebuked. 

“Whoops,” America mocked. “Just destroyed an entire species!” 

“Alright,” England jumped back in after he got the painting to agree to show them the way to Dumbledore’s office. “But at least quidditch isn’t brainwashing children to go into law enforcement.” 

He just had to laugh at their recoil. 

“Brooms aren’t even comfortable,” America shot back.

“They can be with an adjustment,” France argued. 

“Yeah, but not everyone can afford a million-dollar broom!” 

“Well, we aren’t romanticizing dangerous careers -”

“At least everyone can duel equally if they have a wand -” 

“Hockey is so much better, though -”

“Quidditch is a complicated game that only superior minds can-”

“So is dueling, you just -”

“No, it’s not! It’s just trying not to die!”

“As if quidditch isn’t the same?”

The group argued amongst themselves over the sports the entire way to Dumbledore’s office. England caught a lot of different paintings laughing in amusement but was too far gone to even care about that. At one point, he thought he even got a glimpse of Professor McGonagall shaking her head at them with a smile. 

And then suddenly, they were facing the ugly gargoyle statue. 

England called out “Bernie Botts Every Flavor Beans” and the statue retracted, revealing the spiral staircase all the way up to Dumbledore’s office. He took a deep breath and glanced at his allies next to him. 

_ Here we go.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christ that was a longer chapter than usual. So what sport do you guys like best - magical hockey, the classic quidditch, or dueling (or you can be the weird person who likes Thunderbird Racing)? BTW since the Harry Potter universe is so ridiculously diverse and detailed, I won't get every detail right (like I don't think Canada even has a substantial wizarding community in the canon universe), so this me throwing in different characters and changing anything I damn want to.
> 
> Anyways I hope everyone enjoyed and thank you to everyone who reviews and leaves a kudos when reading!


	6. The Dreaded Meeting that Will Probably Fail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meeting with Dumbledore is here at least

The four nations climbed up the stairs. England noted that, out of the four of them, only Canada and himself seemed to be nervous. France held his head up high as he normally did, and America simply bounded up the stairs like an excited golden retriever.

When they reached the door, America pounded on it. England winced - does he have the capability of knocking even a little quieter? Canada seemed equally uncomfortable ( _ since he was the only other sane person in this damned group _ , England bitterly thought). France just seemed amused - like always - and it pissed England off to no end. 

Dumbledore called for them to come in, and America bumbled into the room. When England managed to get into the room, he could only catch a glimpse of the superpower’s blinding smile before he made a direct beeline to the headmaster.

“Wow, you’re Albus Dumbledore!” He held his hand out to shake. “I’m Alfred F. Jones, the representative here on behalf of MACUSA and stuff. This is my first solo assignment, and I’m so psyched that it’s at Hogwarts! Like, this place is practically a legend! You’re a legend! Your work with Dragon’s Blood was revolutionary and your takedown of Grindelwald? Amazing - you’re totally a hero, dude!” 

England openly gaped. What the bloody hell was America doing? His sentences were rushing together and -  _ was he still shaking the poor man’s hand? -  _ practically gushing about the man’s accomplishments. He was playing the part of an enthusiastic fan instead of a grown professional - the exact fucking opposite of what England wanted him to do! 

He was about to step in before he caught Dumbledore’s expression. The man seemed to be entirely amused and entertained by the boy in front of him. His expression was so much more open that it was odd to look at. 

England huffed irritably.  _ Fine,  _ he decided,  _ let America play his weird little fanboy persona.  _ It was odd to the island nation because last week America couldn’t care less about the man, but now he was singing his praises! 

A swift glance at Canada and France told him that they were just as shocked as he was. 

America suddenly spun around, apparently done talking about Dumbledore and how utterly amazing he was, and began to introduce them. He flashed a wink in his direction to say  _ I got this.  _ But for some strange reason, that didn’t assure him. 

“So this is Canada’s rep, Matthew Williams,” America said, his speech still going a million miles an hour, and pointed at Canada. England had to admit, America was doing a pretty good job selling the ‘Oh my God, I’m meeting my idol!’ role very well. “That’s his polar bear, Kumajirou, but don’t worry, he doesn’t bite. Mattie’s super nice, and he’s really great at charms and stuff!” 

He moved on to France. “Francis Bonnefoy, he’s France’s rep. He can be really nice if a bit arrogant and a little stuck up -”

“ _ Hey!”  _ France tried to interject, but America already moved on. 

“And you already met England’s rep, Authur.” 

“Indeed I have, Mr. Jones.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle in a way that they never did during the meeting last week.  _ America must be doing something right _ , he admitted begrudgingly. “Well, that was an… interesting introduction.” He chuckled to himself, and America beamed. 

However, England seemed to know him well enough to know that the smile was entirely fake. That calmed England down a little. For a second, he was afraid America had finally lost it. 

“Well, as Alfred said, I’m Francis Bonnefoy - the representative of France,” France moved to reintroduce himself, cutting a glare at America who just smiled innocently. He firmly shakes Dumbledore’s hand but doesn’t nearly make as big of a deal about it. 

“Matthew William,” Canada quietly introduced and offered his hand to shake. “Thank you for having us.”

“It’s no problem,” Dumbledore serenely said. “Everyone have a seat, please.” England pulled up a chair with America on one side and Canada on the other. France had chosen to sit on the other side of Canada - which was good because it was much less likely for England to strangle him. 

America, on the other hand, was sitting within arm’s reach… 

“Biscuit?” Dumbledore offered again. 

“Cookies!” came America’s happy cry as he gladly grabbed two. England wanted to slam his face onto the desk, but he forced himself to keep his composure. The wizard across from them just laughed. 

“I do believe that they’re called ‘biscuits’, Mr. Jones.”

England could only watch in horror as America dismissed what the famous wizard said with a blunt “nah.” He continued, despite the surrounding horror of the people sitting next to him. “Pretty sure this is called a ‘cookie’.” 

“I supposed we’ll just have to agree to disagree,” Dumbledore said as he took a biscuit for himself. 

“Sure!” 

Dumbledore laughed again - something he was doing much more around America than when he was talking to him, England couldn’t help but continuously compare. “So to begin, I would like to know why your respective governments chose you to do this job.” And everything started, but America’s increasingly louder persona seemed to take up even more space than it usually does. 

“Well,” America readily began. “I know for a fact that MACUSA thought that since, ya know, I was younger I would receive an experience similar to a regular Hogwarts student. And that I would actually be able to talk to the kids more honestly than they would talk to an adult.” 

That was a… really good idea. England could see that, out of the corner of his eye, France and Canada were nodding. 

“Adult?” Dumbledore asked quizzically with raised eyebrows. England wanted to smack himself - of course, he would pick out any flaws he could see or hear! He hasn’t changed from the searching and calculating old man just because America decided to act like an idiot. 

In the corner of his eye, he could see America blankly blink at the old wizard as he registered the questions. “Adult?” he repeatedly idiotically. England could practically see the point where realization dawned on him. “Oh… adults!” Dumbledore just chuckled at the nation's childish behavior. 

They. Were. So. Fucked. 

“Well, I guess I am technically an adult…” the superpower trailed off with a self-conscious laugh.  America? Self-conscious? Since fucking when? 

“Oh?” Dumbledore continued to press. “You guess?”

America looked like he desperately wanted to backpedal, but forced on anyways. Somehow, England caught a glimpse of Canada’s panicked stare while France watched with a glare that plainly read ‘ _ do not mess this up’.  _ “Well… I’m nineteen,” he haltingly explained. “Like I said, this is my first solo assignment, and all the others back home just call me ‘kid’ and... yeah.” All the while he was spewing his little monologue, he peppered in a bitter tone and avoided eye contact.

England blinked uncomprehendingly. America was definitely a  _ much  _ better actor than he previously thought (maybe being the home to Hollywood paid off). He turned to fully look at the nation and saw that, despite seemingly desperately avoiding eye contact with Dumbledore, there was that strange emotion that England couldn’t place. He glanced at the said wizard and saw he was looking down at America through his glasses with the same gleam. 

How odd. 

A strange silence transcended over the room. England (and probably Canada and France) were shocked into silence, and Dumbledore just seemed contemplative. Dumbledore seemed to be the only one to be willing to break the silence. “Why would they be so interested in Hogwarts - Mr. Kirkland said he didn’t know why last time we talked.” 

_ Alright, so we’re just not going to acknowledge anything that just happened _ , England mused.  _ Is that good or bad? _

“Oh,” America brightened up and paused to think for a moment. “Ilvermorny is definitely growing in size, and we needed to see if other schools had a better curriculum for a larger number of students.” He shrugged harmlessly. “And I suppose they wanted to see what the whole ‘Triwizard Tournament’ thing is about.”

“And you, Mr. Williams?” Dumbledore’s electric blue eyes swung from America to Canada, skipping over England entirely. He tried not to feel too offended. 

“Oh, uh -” he stuttered before taking a deep breath. “I suppose - I suppose that since the majority of Canadians are homeschooled, that they wanted to expand their schooling programs?” His voice pitched it to make it sound more like a question than anything, and England’s throat began to close up with his increasing amount of anxiety. They were so unbelievably screwed. 

“Mr. Bonnefoy, do you have anything to add?”

“ _ Non _ ,  _ monsieur _ ,” France shook his head. “ _ Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons _ is facing the same problems as Ilvermorny. Our students come from many neighboring countries.” He said that last part with a bit of an arrogant smile - he really did like holding it over Spain and Portugal’s heads that their magical population was all schooled from France. It annoyed both of them a lot, but then they seemed to realize that they probably dodged a bullet after seeing the amount of trouble England and America go through constantly. 

“Hmmm,” the headmaster hummed airily, staring at the four nations with that strange glint in his eyes. The same glint he saw in America’s all too often. 

“So what do you think?” America asked excitedly. He was still grinning - way too much to be considered entirely normal.  _ Going a bit overboard there,  _ England noted with a raised eyebrow. 

More silence fell over Dumbledore’s strange office. England briefly realized that Dumbledore didn’t even comment on the polar bear that they had brought - did this happen often? Or maybe he just doesn’t want to be the person to ask. Looking over at America, it was clear that he had no problem holding his smile as the silence grew longer (or was he just frozen like that?). England could hear Canada uncomfortably fidget next to him. 

_ “ _ Who are you? _ ”  _ Kumajirou’s voice broke the silence. 

Canada notably tensed (as did America, England realized a second later) and hissed, “ _ Not now! _ ”

“But who are you?” the bear continued to question. Seated on the other side of Canada, France focused his gaze at the ceiling to seemingly pray (or hide his laughter - it was always hard to tell with the frog). 

“I’m Cana -” he froze before rapidly fixing his mistake. “... Matthew.” Canada shot an extremely apologetic look at England before focusing on Dumbledore.  _ The wizard was odd _ , England decided. He was watching the scene unfold in front of him with an amused smile (was he entertained by everything?). England honestly hadn’t seen Dumbledore wear anything on his face except a smile. “I’m so sorry about that - he just gets like this and I don’t know why,” Canada began to profusely apologize to the wizard, which only seemed to make him smile wider. 

“It’s very much alright, Mr. Williams,” Dumbledore assured, cutting off the stream of the repetitive ‘sorry’ from the Canadian. England just desperately wanted this meeting to end. He hasn’t said anything throughout the meeting and it was slowly grating on his nerves - but at the same time, he was grateful that the full force of Dumbledore’s X-Ray eyes aren’t entirely on him anymore. “And I do believe that Hogwarts will welcome you four this upcoming year.”

England’s surprised “ _ really?”  _ was quickly overridden by America.

“Awesome!” he shouted, shooting a look at England to say ‘ _ shut the fuck up’.  _ He bristled at that - America does not tell him what to do! Besides, he didn’t even listen to England’s suggestions to stay professional instead of… whatever bullshit that America is pulling at the moment. 

_ Maybe that was too much to ask _ , England thought dejectedly.  _ Since when has America ever tried to be professional anyway? _

“Well, if you’re interested in observing different classes, maybe we should pick a year you four are a part of and construct a schedule from there,” Dumbledore suggested. But England knew that it wasn’t a request - it was an instruction. 

America apparently read Dumbledore’s suggestion correctly (surprisingly). “Sounds like a plan!” he exclaimed.

“What year would you suggest, Professor Dumbledore?” England asked before any of the others could say anything. 

“Well,” Dumbledore paused to consider his options. “Either fifth or seventh year would be preferable.”

“Why is that  _ Monsieur  _ Dumbledore?” France asked. 

“Because the fifth years take their Ordinary Wizard Levels and the seventh years take their N.E.W.Ts.”

“Newts?” America asked quizzically. 

“Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests,” Dumbledore answered with a smile. America just laughed in response. 

“I would think the fifth year would work well,” England cut through America’s laughter. Harry Potter was supposed to go into the fourth year so fifth years should be closer - it wouldn’t make sense for them to go to Hogwarts and  _ not _ observe the famous Boy Who Lived after all (even if it is only from afar). ( _ It’s not creepy _ , England tried to convince himself.)

“A very good choice,” Dumbledore accepted. He seemed to almost search through England to find his motivation for that particular year. Seemingly not finding any, he moved on (to which England was very thankful). “Well, now you should choose the electives that you want to take.” From somewhere under his desk, he withdrew four different pieces of paper which held a checklist of twelve different options. 

The options of Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, History of Magic, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Astronomy, and Herbology were already checked off - presumably the required courses of that year. 

“Please pick two of the unchecked classes,” the headmaster instructed. “And write your name on it.” 

Feeling like a child, England quickly checked off the Study of Ancient Runes and Muggle Studies - simply because they would be the easiest classes for him. His job wasn’t to  _ actually  _ go to school here (when Scotland finds out, he’ll never let anyone forget it) so it would be much easier to pick classes where he already had a basic knowledge of. It certainly helped that he was a centuries-old being with fairy friends that often used magical runes.

They all handed back their pieces of paper to the old wizard, who hummed in appreciation as he looked over the different papers.

“I see no one’s fan of Divination,” he noted with a small chuckle. “Now that that’s sorted, we should sort out the issue of where you should stay during the school year.” 

“We can just book rooms at small inns at Hogsmeade,” England jumped in immediately. He did not want to stay at Hogwarts. That would add too much insult to injury at that point, and England would not stand for it. He  _ refused  _ to sleep in the school that Scotland raves about. 

“That wouldn’t be necessary, Mr. Kirkland,” Dumbledore said softly, peering over his half-moon glasses. “You all can stay in the dorms.” 

“If it’s alright with you, Mr. Dumbledore,” America jumped in. “I think it  _ would  _ be better to stay in the village.” 

“Staying in the dorms is a part of the student experience here,” he countered. “It would be much better if you stayed here.” 

“No, we wouldn’t want to intrude -” America still tried to protest even as England began to lose hope. 

“Mr. Jones,” Dumbledore said with finality. “I insist.” Apparently not wanting to make this issue into something larger, France intervened. 

“Thank you for your generosity.” America slumped in defeat and looked just as uneasy as England at the prospect of staying in the castle.

“It’s truly no problem. Now,” he clapped his hands together and stood up. “If you want to take the train, you should head to King’s Cross Station at Platform 9 ¾."

“9 ¾?” America questioned with a hesitant look on his face.

“You’ll know it when you see it,” Dumbledore said with a soft smile on his face. 

“What kind of train is it?” the superpower suddenly questioned with a bright smile on his face. 

“I believe the express is a steam locomotive, Mr. Jones.” 

“Sweet!” 

Dumbledore just laughed at America’s childlike excitement. “I do believe that we don’t have anything else to talk about,” he concluded the meeting. 

_ Finally.  _

With a last long handshake between America and Dumbledore paired with a lot of ‘thank yous’ and ‘you’re so awesomes’, the four nations left the strange office and headed down the flight of stairs in silence. 

England occasionally glanced at America to find that his megawatt smile had dropped completely as he stared off into some unknown distance. When the group got off the spiral staircase, England immediately turned on America. Now was the time to get some fucking answers. 

“What the bloody hell was that?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Iggy,” America tried to protest. His smile was definitely strained - something was off. 

“Yes, you do,” England insisted. 

“What do you mean?” America gave an awkward laugh. “You sure you don’t want to talk about this later?” He gave a pointed glance at the paintings surrounding them in the hall. The paintings that can definitely understand what they were saying at the moment and move between different frames to travel - the perfect spies. “I wanna get something at the Three Broomsticks.” 

“Ah,” England said as understanding dawned on him. “Of course. I do want some Butterbear.” 

“Butterbeer?” Canada questioned. That, of course, sparked a conversation (debate) about magical drinks in their different countries. Eventually, that conversation ended with England promising Canada and America some butterbeer and France scowling in the background.

“So what classes y’all sign up for?” America drawled as he lazily looked around the empty corridors. 

“It’s  _ you all  _ not  _ y’all,”  _ England snippily corrected. When will he learn? “And I chose Muggle Studies and Study of Ancient Runes.” France suddenly laughed off to the side. England mentally swore. When the frog laughs, something usually is wrong.

“What a coincidence,” he chuckled. “I have signed up for the same classes.” 

“Fucking brilliant,” England swore. France just kept laughing.  _ Damn him.  _

“We’ll have so much fun together,  _ mon ami.”  _ England just flipped him off in retaliation. He didn’t even deserve a verbal response.

“I signed up for Care of Magical Creatures and Arithmancy,” Canada softly intervened -  _ again. _

“Cool, bro!” America excitedly exclaimed. “I signed up for Care of Magical Creatures and Muggle Studies!” England just groaned - he had to deal with France and America in the same class. 

This was a nightmare. 

Thankfully, they finally made it outside. Time to get some answers from the secretive American. “Alright, spit it out,” England demanded, swiftly changing the subject. “Tell us what was going on back there.”

“He doesn’t trust us,” America said simply with a shrug. 

“How could you possibly know that?” 

“Because he’s forcing us to stay in the castle where we can be monitored at all times,” he answered as if it were obvious to come to that conclusion. “He hired a psycho who was obsessed with some miracle stone three years ago  _ and  _ he exposed Lockhart for misuse of the obliviate charm after hiring him two years ago.” 

“Since when did you know that?” Canada asked incredulously beside England. 

“I do my research, dude,” America said with his Hollywood smile. “We’ll have to be careful what we say inside the castle and stuff, and it’ll be harder to leave the place without someone questioning where we’re going.” 

“That’s very… astute of you, America,” England complimented hesitantly. Since when has America become so smart?

“If we’re going to have to censor ourselves in the castle,” France jumped into the conversation, “we should probably start getting into the habit of calling each other by our human names.”

“Good idea, dude!” 

“That doesn’t explain how you were acting around Dumbledore, though,” Canada pressed. 

“What? Can’t a dude just express his love for his idol?” America said sarcastically with a large grin. England gave him a particularly flat look. “Alright, so when I was researching old Dumbles, some people who actually went to Hogwarts talked to me about weird and senile he was.”

“Get to the point, Amer - Alfred,” England demanded. He winced at the idea of using their human names - it sounded so odd after calling him America for over two hundred years. 

“Fine,” he groaned. “Well, some people said he really enjoyed being around kids, and like that’s why he’s the headmaster of a school instead of Minister of Magic or some shit. So I figured I’d play the angle of basically an enthusiastic kid to get him to loosen up and maybe get him to underestimate me a bit.”

“You  _ are  _ an enthusiastic kid, Al,” Canada teased. “Like ninety percent of the time.” 

“Man, shut up. It didn’t work anyways.”

“I actually think it did,” England began with a glance at the pouting superpower. “Compared to when I was with him, he laughed and smiled a lot more just now.”

“Hmmm,” America said with a self-satisfied smile on his face. 

“But don’t let it get to your head,” England snapped. “You’re still an idiot.” America just laughed and slung his arm over England’s shoulder. 

“Admit it,” he sang. “It was pretty genius, wasn’t it?”

“Get off me, you brute!” England snarled as he untangled himself from the other nation. They walked into the Hogsmeade Village and headed straight for the Three Broomsticks just to get America and Canada some butterbeer. “Have you no sense of personal space?”

“Uh, England -”

“I mean honestly. And we’re supposed to use our human names now!”

“ _ Angleterre _ -” 

“Frog, shut up. Also, what did I just say -” 

France seemed to have enough of England’s ranting (which - rude) and grabbed his shoulders and turned him around to come face to face with the one person who did not want to see there - Scotland

_ Well, shit.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so I'm not super proud of this chapter but I hope everything turned out alright. For some reason, I cannot ever write Dumbledore's character correctly so at this point I'm just like screw it. 
> 
> Also I'm going on vacation for the next week so I may not be able to update nearly as fast as I normally do (or maybe I will - who knows)


	7. The Unwanted Kirkland Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well here comes Scotland and Wales and absolute chaos.

The Kirkland brothers confused the shit out of America; so when they ran into Scotland and Wales at the Three Broomsticks, he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. But when England tensed up beside him, he knew that there was going to be some sort of explosion. 

_ Awesome.  _ Whether or not that was a sarcastic ‘awesome’ was up for debate. 

“Well,” Scotland drawled around the cigarette in his mouth. America absent-mindedly wondered if he knew he was doing an amazing imitation of a Bond villain, but that probably wasn’t the problem here (even though it totally should be). “What brought the mighty England to the lowly Scottish town of Hogsmeade?” 

“Scotland,” England shortly answered, glaring at his older brother. Wales bounded across the room to greet the island nation with a brief side hug, ignoring the hostilities being silently thrown between two of his siblings. America could totally get behind ignoring-the-tense-atmosphere thing. 

“Artie!” the other Kirkland exclaimed. “You shoulda told us you were going to be here! We could’ve gotten Ireland over here and have a little reunion!” 

England, for his part, looked like he absolutely hated the idea.

“Hello, Wales,” the younger Kirkland brother greeted. America, out of the corner of his eye, saw France desperately trying to escape the pub. With the most experience dealing with the Kirkland brothers as a group, America probably should’ve followed his lead. 

Before he could, Scotland asked, “What’re you doin’ here?” The redhead seemed to scan their entire group - his eye lingering a bit too long on America for him to be entirely comfortable. 

“Just talking to some of my citizens,” England snapped. “Why do you care anyway?”

Scotland’s attention snapped to his little brother, and America caught a single gold earring on his right ear.  _ So badass.  _ “I  _ care, _ ” Scotland snarled back. Wales looked helplessly caught in the middle, but he didn’t try to intervene. “Because you come here with your closest allies, including the world’s only superpower, so you can just  _ talk?”  _ He let out a sharp laugh that made Canada wince beside him. 

“And we know that America wouldn’t waste his time if it wasn’t something important,” Wales piped up next to Scotland. England, from what America could see, shot his brother a betrayed look, but the strawberry blond shrugged innocently. 

“Listen,” America tried to intervene. He put on a smile to help defuse the situation, but judging by all the different glares sent his way, he probably wasn’t helping.  _ Whatever _ he mentally shrugged it off. He was the hero! He also needed to get back to his place to tell the Prez what was going on. 

He probably couldn’t do that if he got caught amid a Kirkland brawl - which he usually tried to avoid at all costs. 

“We’re just investigating the attack at the Quidditch World Cup,” he answered truthfully. 

Scotland turned his suspicious glare towards him. “Why do  _ you  _ care?” he questioned. “You hate magic!” 

“Man, does everyone know that?” America groaned to himself. “And I’m the hero! Of course, I’d help out!” Okay, that was a lie. America  _ did  _ have reasons for intervening, but Scotland didn’t need to know that. 

Wales and Scotland let out identical scoffs that made America question if he should be offended. “The hero of the world…” Scotland muttered under his breath. “You keep believing that,” he said dismissively. 

“You guys went to Hogwarts, right?” Wales questioned with an eye roll and shared a glance with England. America was confused - what side was Wales on? 

“You did?” Scotland’s tone immediately became friendly. “How did you like it?”

“Ilvermorny is better,” America said bluntly and crossed his arm. 

“ _ Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons  _ is better than both of your schools,” France determined with an arrogant sniff. 

Suddenly, Scotland’s demeanor darkened considerably. “Such bold words,” he muttered darkly. “When you are on Scottish ground.” 

“‘s not bold when it’s true,” America countered. As soon as he said that, a wand was under his throat. Everyone else immediately backed off, but England and Wales just rolled their eyes. They were probably expecting something like this to happen. 

“Say that again, laddie,” Scotland growled. His voice barely contained the rage that was shown clearly across his face. 

“You know how much you sound like a Bond villain right now?” America laughed as Scotland’s wand continued to press into his throat. 

Then pain exploded across his face and he heard the yell, “For Hogwarts!” before he was tackled to the ground. America recovered quickly (he wasn’t the world’s superpower for nothing) and grappled for control. 

In the background, he could hear England and Wales calls to “kick his arse!” He wasn’t too sure who they were talking to, but he decided to take their words of encouragement anyways. 

“Crazy asshole,” America grunted as he aimed an undercut. The red-haired nation stumbled back, getting caught on the chairs and tables in the way.  _ That’s right,  _ America dimly noted,  _ we’re in a restaurant.  _

“Arrogant bastard!” Scotland snarled before rushing at America again. Instead of catching the enraged nation head-on again, he threw himself out of the way and watched as Scotland stumbled forward. America had to control his strength - as much as the Scot was annoying him, he didn’t want to accidentally kill that dude. 

He landed a kick at the nation’s back, knocking his body to the floor. Just as quickly, America lunged forward and straddled the Kirkland to the floor. With his arms pinned to his side, Scotland stopped struggling and went limp. 

“You done?” America asked. 

Scotland huffed and America patiently waited for his upcoming surrender. “... fine.” The American grinned and stood up. Backing away from Scotland, he allowed his grin to transform into a cocky smirk. 

“You gonna admit that Ilvermorny is better now?” 

In a flash, the Scot was up and lunging to get another punch in, but Wales somehow got behind his brother and held him back. “C’mon, Scottie,” he could hear Wales murmur. “Not right now. The man probably has a gun on him - he’s America after all.” 

America scoffed at that.  _ Of course,  _ he had a gun on him, but he wasn’t stupid enough to draw it on England’s brother over a school. Of all fucking things to start a fight over. Scotland’s face was flushed bright red in his rage, but America had seen the expression on England’s face too many times to be properly intimidated. 

“Alright,” Scotland groaned when he couldn’t get free of his brother. “Fine.” He turned his attention to America and pointed at him (it was probably supposed to be a threatening gesture) and sneered. “You better not fucking insult Hogwarts on Scottish ground.” He gracefully flipped the American off before ordering a round of something called ‘firewhiskey’. 

It probably wasn’t the best idea to get drunk after that display, but what did America know? 

Speaking of display… he turned to the gaping crowd who looked either thoroughly entertained or disgusted.  _ Since they’re wizards,  _ America mused to himself,  _ I suppose they probably don’t get too many fistfights around.  _ No one in the crowd had intervened in the brief fight (it was nothing like his fights with Russia - that’s when the guns come out) probably because of the shock and surprise of a literal fistfight going out instead of Scotland throwing a jinx at him. 

Since no one had left, he gave a cocksure bow. “I’ll be here all year!” That gave everyone the cue to either laugh good naturally or snort in disgust and leave. 

England loudly laughed at his brother who was sulking at the bar and practically skipped over to where America was. “Good show, mate!” He clapped America on the back with his shit-eating grin directed over at Scotland. Apparently feeling his little brother’s gaze, he gave a silent middle finger before downing another shot. 

_ That’s how to get on his good side. Just beat the shit out of his brothers.  _

“If only Ireland were here,” England sighed in faux disappointment. “You could’ve insulted his quidditch team and you two would’ve gone at it.” Wales wandered over to the pair - Canada and France probably detached themselves from the chaos at some point. He laughed when he heard what England said. 

“That fight would’ve been something,” he shook his head in exasperation. “He would’ve pulled a knife on the lad.” 

“I coulda handled that,” America said with a laugh. 

“Yeah...” the strawberry blond warily trailed off as he studied America. He squirmed a bit under the scrutiny but still managed to flash his movie star smile. “What’d you mean about being here all year?” 

England suddenly froze beside him, but America didn’t really understand why. “We’re staying at Hogwarts to investigate the terrorist attack,” he replied easily. England groaned beside him. 

Wales froze but a ridiculous smile began to grow across his face. It was almost comical how his face lit up as a booming laugh slipped past his lips. England growled softly beside him and his brother kept laughing - America felt like he was missing something. 

“What?” a disgruntled (and now not entirely sober) Scotland asked. “What’s so funny, Dylan?” 

“Scottie,” Wales wheezed. “They’re staying at Hogwarts!” 

America wasn’t sure if Scotland’s brain short-circuited or it was just the fact that he could hold his liquor as well as his brother - that is, not at all - but he froze and blearily asked “What?” like he was in some sort of dream. 

“They’re staying at Hogwarts!” Wales boomed. He was still laughing as if he was told the funniest joke in the world, but America was 90% sure that investigating a terrorist attack wasn’t funny. 

A slow, sly grin slid across Scotland’s face and both of the older Kirkland’s turned to their younger brother. Seeing as England’s face was just as flushed as Scotland’s was about five minutes ago, it was probably better if he left before a war broke out. 

With a half-hearted “I’m just gonna go see where Mattie is…” he slipped away from the bar in search of his brother and France. He got about ten steps before he heard yelling break out behind him. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mumbled in exasperation but didn’t look behind him. It was probably better that he didn’t know what the hell was going on between the brothers. 

He made it another five steps before he heard glass shatter. 

Ignoring the probably growing chaos behind him, he scanned the pub to catch a sight of his brother. After about five seconds of looking, America was about to give up (he was never known for patience) and look outside, but he caught a glimpse of France sitting at a booth in the far back. Walking around the tables and chairs that still weren’t picked up after his fight with Scotland (it’s been what? Five minutes? For people who can clean things up without lifting a finger they are rather lazy), he made it to Canada’s table without pissing anyone off.

It was a fucking miracle. 

“Yo, dudes!” America slid into the booth next to his twin. He caught a look at the fizzy looking drinks on the table. “That butterbeer?” 

_ “Oui,”  _ France answered. America eagerly reached for Canada’s drink, but his hand was slapped out of the way. 

“Back off, Al,” he snipped with a smile. Canada took a flask out of his pocket and poured the contents into his drink. “This is mine.”

“Dude,” America said with a snort. “Is that alcohol?” 

Canada grave his brother a scandalized look. “Of course not! Who do you think I am?” After a brief pause, he added quietly, “It’s maple syrup.” 

No one could blame him for laughing at his flushing Canadian brother when he tried to explain pouring syrup in a drink. France just shook his head disapprovingly as he muttered about “Damn England” and “ruining these poor boys’ taste buds.” 

Flagging down a waiter, America ordered a butterbeer just to try the drink that had England raving. He wasn’t entirely sure if he trusted England’s taste on food, but he was curious. (And flask of maple syrup aside, Canada seemed to like it, so that was a plus.) 

When he got the drink, he was happy to find that it didn’t, in fact, taste like either death or poison and it had a butterscotch quality to it. After a brief hesitation, he turned to his brother. “Yo, Mattie?” Canada looked up from his drink. “Can I have some syrup?” His brother looked delighted as France groaned in despair. 

It tasted better with maple syrup in it. 

“I told you!” Canada crowed. “It tastes better with syrup in it!” At France’s dismayed look, America asked his brother what other foods tasted better with syrup added to it. 

He had a surprisingly long list.

After a while of discussing the “godliness of maple syrup” (in Canada’s words, not his) over France horrified squeaks of ‘ruining food’ and the Kirkland’s brawl - well, it was either a brawl or they really enjoyed smashing glasses for the hell of it - England limped over with a black eye and split lip.

“Ah,  _ Angleterre,”  _ France laughed at the sight of his old rival. “Your siblings always end up doing a number on you.” England, probably too tired to get into a second fight, just grumbled under his breath and flagged someone from the staff down. 

“One firewhiskey,” England tried to order, but France immediately shot him down. 

“Along with your caterpillar eyebrows,” he began, despite the intense eye-twitching that England had going on next to him, “your family has been cursed with extremely low alcohol intolerance.” 

“I can handle myself, frog,” England growled. America noticed his fingers were twitching, but he wasn’t sure if they were twitching to strangle, punch, shoot, or hex him. Probably all four. 

“I do not want to deal with you drunk -” 

“Stop interfering -” 

Over there arguing, Canada just leaned across America to order four butterbeers for the group. America just smirked when he saw some of the staff give their table fearful looks - probably afraid of a  _ third  _ fight to break out. But, try as he might, he couldn’t find the two other Kirklands anywhere inside the Three Broomsticks. 

“Yo, Iggy,” America interrupted their fight. Their fight probably started to branch off into other things outside of England’s ability to hold his liquor, and he didn’t want a couple of old nations ranting about the ‘good ol’ days’ in front of him. Besides, in the ‘good ol’ days’, he wasn’t even alive, which means those days definitely sucked. “Where’d Scotland and Wales go?” 

England’s eye twitched at the mention of his brothers. “They left.” 

Canada raised an eyebrow. “Just like that?” 

“Yes,” and then England visibly hesitated. “After a lot of threats and punches.” 

“Obviously,” France drawled. “It wouldn’t be a Kirkland reunion without that.” 

“Shut up, frog.” 

The waiter came with their four butterbeers, and after England’s initial griping that it wasn’t alcohol, they all settled down to enjoy their drink. Then Canada pulled out his special flask and poured some syrup into both his and America’s drinks. 

With a  _ BANG!  _ England slammed down his cup. “What the hell was that?” 

“Maple syrup,” America said with a smirk.

England’s eye twitched (he should really get that checked out). “What was that?” 

“Syrup,” he said more forcefully. “I said it was -” That was when he was tackled out of his seat. 

Oh, well. He’s gotten into fights over worse things than maple syrup. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a filler, but I think it kinda just highlights England's relationship with his brothers which is fun. Thanks again to anyone who commented and left a kudos!


	8. If Spain and Germany had a Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Packing and last-minute mania ensues.

When Dumbledore said  _ September 1st,  _ none of them really registered that that was less than two days away until they got thrown out of the Three Broomsticks with black eyes and split lips (England may or may not have gotten a broken nose - courtesy of France - but that’s beside the point). 

The point was that if they thought they were screwed during the meeting, they were more than fucked now. 

“We need to leave,” America snapped. Compared to the superpower, the others looked rather relaxed, which America thought was unfair -  _ he _ was supposed to be the chill one, after all. “There are so many different preparations that needs to go through -”

“Calm down, lad,” England irritably interrupted his ramblings. “Everything will be fine.” 

“We need to leave,” was all America could say. It seemed to be stuck in a loop in his head.  _ We need to leave. We need to prepare. There isn’t enough time.  _ “We don’t have enough time to take a plane - Canada, can you apparate near New York?” 

His brother looked shocked, then a little angry. “Alfred, I had trouble getting me, you, and Kuma from the airport to England’s house,” he snapped. “How the hell do you think we can get across the Atlantic Ocean without killing ourselves?” 

America could only groan. There wasn’t enough time for this! He had to write a whole report for the Prez (because England had failed to give him  _ any  _ information to start), he had to meet his team, he had to talk to his boss - 

_ There was just too much to do and not enough time.  _

America didn’t really know why he was so worried - usually, he was more of a go with the flow guy. Who cares that he was late for some wizarding school for middle and high schoolers? America sure as hell didn’t, but for some reason, the way Dumbledore looked at him bugged him. He was  _ calculating _ him, trying to see his motivations, his fears, what he could use… well, America wouldn’t let him. 

He’s not going to give the old wizard anything to grab a hold of. Ecstatic, fan-boy Alfred wouldn’t be a second late to the ‘famous’ Hogwarts Start of Year Feast, and America had to uphold that image. If Dumbledore didn’t trust him - fine, he didn’t trust the senile wizard anyways. But he wasn’t a pawn to play in someone else’s games. 

Especially when he’s too busy playing his own. 

“ _ Oui, Amerique,”  _ France said beside Canada. “Why can’t you transport yourself home?” America glanced at England, who only stared back in pity. 

He grit his teeth. That was another thing - he technically wasn’t a wizard. They were so goddamned  _ superior  _ to everything around them. If there was something magical but couldn’t actually wield a wand, it was something to be pitied or disgusted by.  _ A magical creature.  _

America wasn’t a wizard, but he wasn’t exactly a magical creature or a no-maj. 

Maybe that’s why he was so worried. He  _ needed  _ to prove himself to MACUSA. Hell, he’s proven himself to his no-maj government over and over, spanning so many different lifetimes that humans can barely process it. If the magical world didn’t want anything to do with him, he didn’t want anything to do with it either.

But when they gave him a chance to prove himself, he couldn’t even make it over the first hurdle without needing any help. 

“Because,” America gritted out. “I can’t do any magic.” Their reactions were immediate. Canada gasped and immediately started to apologize for teasing him, and France just took a step back to study him. “It’s fine,” he waved off their (more like just Canada’s) concerns. “I have kickass wind powers to help out.” 

_ “What?”  _ Canada gaped. In all honesty, he had zero patience to talk about anything at the moment. He needed to move - he had so much work to do to prepare for this shit show. 

“Tell you when we get a moment to breathe,” America sighed and stared at his brother’s polar bear. “Leave Kuma with England or France. They live closer to this area, and we’re seeing them again in less than a week.” 

After a brief moment of hesitation, Canada nodded. America could feel a wave of relief wash over him like a tidal wave. “Fine. I can drop you off in New York.” 

“Great! You’re the best, dude!” 

Canada looked a bit apprehensive but smiled anyway. “No promises where in the city though.” 

“It’ll be fine,” America insisted with a laugh. He grabbed his brother’s arm and began tugging to try and get the urgency across to him. They needed to  _ leave.  _

“One of you two needs to watch over Kuma,” Canada ordered before disapparating with a loud  _ CRACK!  _

The one thing that needs to be said about cross-continental apparating was that America did not like it. At all. 

Suddenly, instead of being surrounded by the muted sounds of the Scottish countryside, they were right in the middle of Times Square. Those quiet sounds littered with European accents were replaced by screams of blunt American voices who were further punctuated by viciously honking taxis. 

And America had never felt more at home. 

Giving his brother a quick (but firm) hug, he ran off into the crowd to get to the Woolworth Building. Sticking his hand into the road, he managed to quickly flag down a taxis (which was a first - those things took forever to get the attention of). America flung himself into the car, and the New York City taxis screeched off into traffic at high speeds. 

The ride was a tense silence between the nation of the innocent taxis driver who just so happened to pick him up. America was constantly trying to move - tapping his foot, his fingers, anything. And finally, after an agonizing ride (which probably was only fifteen minutes), they made it to MACUSA’s headquarters. 

America threw the driver a couple of bills and ran off into the rotating doors. He wasn’t sure if he threw the man two single dollar bills or two hundred dollar bills - it could be anyone’s guess at this point.

Shoving himself through the “secret” door, America stormed over to the secretary’s desk. It was the same wizard from a couple weeks ago. Good - that dude didn’t seem to question anything America did. 

“You need to take some time to sort through your cards?” the wizard drawled as he looked up from his book. It probably wasn’t very interesting because the man’s face was basically the very definition of boredom. 

“Hopefully not,” he grunted in response as he dug around in his wallet. To his relief (and surprise), he found his MACUSA ID without a hitch. America flipped the card around to show that he did, in fact, have the proper identification and the wizard took his sweet time going through it. 

“You in a rush?” he asked with a nod, indicating the nation could head in. 

“Something like that!” America yelled back at him as he dashed through halls of the American magical congress. He sprinted straight towards the President’s office, and unlike last time, people actually  _ did  _ try to stop him. Not that it mattered too much as he plowed through them.

When he got to President Romera’s office, he didn’t even bother to knock as he opened the door. He was probably interrupting a meeting or some important work, but America couldn’t find the heart to particularly care. 

Thankfully, she was alone when America decided to barge in. 

“America,” she greeted him coldly, probably upset that he didn’t even bother to knock. It was a sign of disrespect, sure, but at this point, that was the least of his worries. 

“Yo, Prez,” he greeted a bit tiredly and a bit strained. “We need to get that special team together  _ now.”  _ She blinked, clearly not expecting that amount of urgency to color his voice. “And I know you said I need to give you a report before we can do anything, but there really isn’t enough time right now.” 

“What’s happening?”

“We - me and three other personifications - are going undercover at Hogwarts to investigate the Triwizard Tournament. Hogwarts starts in two days and with my cover, I can’t be late for anything.” 

“Then why,” the President of MACUSA began, “do you need a team of five aurors with you?” Her voice was strained - like she wanted to start yelling but couldn’t. He’s heard that tone in both England and Germany enough to know that she was probably only two seconds away from either firing him (if he was a normal auror) or just screaming orders at him. 

“I need them to do a lot of reconnaissance like tracking former Death Eaters, noting their behaviors and their work patterns and stuff like that. We’ll probably crack into the Ministry because who knows how many secrets they’re trying to hide from the general public,” America listed off. Alright so it wasn’t too detailed, but he was in a rush.

“Alright, Captain Jones,” President Romera sighed to herself. “Go to Auror Commissioner James Dean to assemble your group and immediately after that I need you to go down to R&D - they’ll know what to give you when they see you.” 

“Alright!” America said with a relieved laugh. That wasn’t too bad… he could do this. “See you, Prez!” He turned to walk out the door, much slower than the frenzied pace before, before she stopped him.

“I want weekly reports!” 

America couldn’t help but groan. Paperwork - the hell where all happiness goes to die. He just gave a brief thumbs-up before he left to go to the Department of Law Enforcement wing (which easily takes up more than half of the building). 

He breezily walked through the ever-growing and expanding halls of MACUSA as he mentally went through the list of things he needed to complete in forty-eight hours.  _ Gather the team, meet the team, go to R&D (for some reason), talk to his boss, figure out lodging for his team… _

He had to start whistling the Lion King songs to make sure he didn’t go into that weird pit of anxiety again. That had  _ not  _ been fun. 

Ignoring the strange looks sent his way (wizards had no sense of culture), he managed to find his way to the Auror Commissioner’s office without too much trouble. Even with his impatience crawling up his throat, he rangled upon enough ‘respect’ to knock on the door before poking his head in. 

“Mr. Dean?” America asked as he looked into his office. Auror Commissioner Dean cut an intimidating figure and, despite America not meeting the man himself, had heard enough things (complaints) from the R&D Department that he could probably describe his personality and then some. 

And from what he’s heard, his personality wasn’t sunshine and rainbows. 

“Yes?” the man grunted. He looked toward America, and he almost wanted to bolt out of the office (hell, maybe even the entire department wing) because staring right at him might as well be Germany’s doppelganger. 

It was fucking terrifying. 

“I, uh, I was sent by the Prez to gather the team for the reconnaissance mission in the UK.” Dean raised an eyebrow when he said ‘the Prez’ and America winced. So much for first impressions. 

“Ah,” was all he said. “So you’re the Captain Jones President Romera had spoken so much about.” 

“She talks about me?” America grinned. “I knew she liked me.” 

“It was mostly complaints,” he deadpanned. America could only grin wider - this mirrored Germany to such a point where it stopped being scary and bordered on comical. 

“As long as she wasn’t cursing my name I think I’m in the clear.” 

The commissioner mumbled something under his breath like “you’ll fit in with them” which filled America with more foreboding than it should. More people like him? On a team where they were supposed to get stuff done? 

Time to dig his own grave and jump in. 

“Well,” the infamous auror stood up from his desk. His skin was a bit darker than Germany’s with his eyes green instead of blue. If he was being completely honest with himself, the dude looked like a Spain and Germany love child. 

And that thought was disturbing enough to get a (very loud) snort out of the superpower. Dean just cut him a scathing sidelong glare before striding out into the office. “CRUZ! O’DAIRE! THOMAS! CAMBER! ” he bellowed, nearly bursting the nation’s eardrums as he walked beside the man. After a brief hesitation (probably to catch his breath) he shouted, “BOTH OF YOU!”

Well, if Spain and Germany did end up with a kid, this guy definitely inherited Germany’s personality. Poor guy. 

The said people scrambled out from around various hallways, desks, and just randomly appeared out of nowhere (it’s the wizarding world, America was learning not the question things). He didn’t know what person correlated to what name because, America assumed, the Auror Commissioner shouted out their last names.

But in front of him was probably one of the last people he would ever get to see. “Kid?” the secretary from the front desk asked hesitantly. His expression clearly read  _ please let this be a dream. _

“Hey!” America said brightly. “So you’re an auror?” The not-secretary dude nodded as his expression dropped when he realized that this probably wasn’t a terrible dream he was going to wake up from. “Why were you working as a secretary?” 

The man’s expression darkened as he muttered, “Pissed off the commissioner a month ago.” America had never been happier that he doesn’t actually have to work under the Spain-Germany love child that really shouldn’t exist. 

“That sucks, dude.” The man just grunted like ‘ _ tell me about it’.  _

Right next to the man was a girl that probably looked to be about America’s age (in appearance anyway). Late teens, early twenties with light brown skin with hair tied up in a messy bun at the top of her head. Her wand was tragically stuck through the bun to either keep the hair in place or put the thing in somewhere where it couldn’t get lost. She was currently snapping gum and wearing sweatpants and generally looking like a walking disaster. 

America knew that they’d make great friends. 

Another woman walked up to the riff-raff group. Compared to her gum-snapping, sweatpants-wearing coworker, she was much more put together with smart looking jeans and a form-fitting black shirt. She looked to be in her late twenties to early thirties range, and she had red hair bright enough to rival Scotland’s. It was cut into a soft bob cut that framed her heart-shaped face well enough to catch America’s eye (and, as France liked to say, he was hopeless at anything regarding fashion). She wore a bright smile and gave a little wave in America’s direction. 

Two men walked in their direction, and they were obviously brothers with their similar facial structures and eyes. One of them wore his dark hair longer with it held up in a clip while the other one had his cut short. Similar to their hairstyles, their clothing choices were as drastically different as his and France’s. The one with longer hair wore the stereotypical wizard robes (which America questioned the practicality of) while the other one with shorter hair wore gym shorts and a t-shirt sporting the Yankees logo. How and why he got that t-shirt was something America wanted to know (considering the segregation between the magical and nonmagical worlds). 

“Gang’s all here,” the dude with the Yankees shirt chirped enthusiastically. “Heya, Commissioner!” When the Spain-Germany love child’s eye twitched, America instantly knew he got the pack of troublemakers. Awesome! Now,  _ these  _ aurors probably won’t be so uppity all the time.

“Introductions,” Commissioner Dean swiftly began. “This -” he gestured to America, who gladly gave a wave and a smile, “- is Captain Jones. He’ll be your commanding officer in your reconnaissance mission in the UK.” 

“The UK?” the girl with her wand in her hair asked incredulously. 

“Did you read the packet I gave you, Cruz?” the Auror Commissioner sharply growled. Cruz just raised an unimpressed eyebrow. 

“No.” 

The Spain-Germany love child just let an exasperated sigh that was so fucking similar to the actual Germany that America just couldn’t decide if it was funny or terrifying. Probably both - both was good. “Well, you’re leaving today, so I expect you to either read the packet or get the highlights from someone else here.” 

She just gave a slight shrug that indicated that she was definitely not going to do anything - and America should know, he gave that exact shrug too many times to count. 

“Captain Jones,” Dean continued. “Meet your team: Alexandra Cruz,” the girl in question just gave him an appraising glance before giving him a curt nod. 

“Call me Alex,” was all she simply said as she continued to snap her gum. 

“Connor O’Daire.” The not-secretary gave him a half-hearted wave with a small smirk. He had fair skin with dark brown hair that was cut in a similar style to America’s. He looked to be in his mid-thirties but still maintained an athletic build. 

“Rebecca Thomas.” The woman with bright red hair gave him an enthusiastic wave that matched America’s to a tee. 

“Sam Camber.” The brother with the wizarding robes gave him a sharp nod of greeting. America could tell he was serious - but he was in this group, so America still had hope for him. “And William Camber.” The other brother with the gym shorts just gave him a broad grim. 

“Call me Will.” 

“Cruz, while she doesn’t look it, is one of our best duelists here,” he continued to introduce them. “O’Daire is one of our field medics who does an exceptional Protego charm.” 

“Aw, James,” the not-secretary -  _ Connor O’Daire,  _ America was going to have to get used to calling him that - snorted. “I’m flattered.” 

“Rebecca Thomas is one of our top investigators,” Dean continued over O’Daire as if he hadn’t heard him. “And our two Cambers are jack-of-all-trades -”

“- and masters of none,” Cruz snarked under her breath. Will looked like he wanted to argue but kept quiet with a sharp look from his brother and the commissioner. 

“They also work really well with explosions.” 

“They’re  _ pyros?”  _ America gasped without thinking. Connor and Alex just snorted in amusement (and possibly in agreement) while the two brothers frowned. 

“Well, pyro is a strong term -” Will tried to protest but was interrupted by Rebecca. 

“Yep!” 

“You set something on fire  _ three times -”  _

“You shouldn’t set anything on fire,” the Commissioner growled, cutting off the argument before it could truly begin. America just stared at the two brothers in amazement - they were more interesting than he thought! “Now, you six need to go to R&D before doing anything - they have something for Jones.” 

“Well, let’s go!” America said as he walked away from the creepy/hilarious Spain-Germany love child. 

“And Jones,” the commissioner growled. “Fill them in on your… situation.” America frowned - did he really need to talk about that  _ now?  _ \- and gave a mock salute before he left. 

America and his new team walked through the halls in an awkward silence, but no one seemed brave enough to break it. “So Captain,” Connor finally drawled. “What’s your  _ situation  _ that Jimmy-boy wanted you to tell us?” America could hear a faint southern accent decorate his voice. 

“I’m not a wizard,” America said bluntly. He could hear the sound of footsteps behind him stop (in shock probably). He turned around to see surprise glaring on all of their faces - even Alex and Connor, who seemed like the type to not react to a lot of situations. 

“Sorry, what?” Will asked weakly. 

“Not a wizard. As in, I can't use a wand or anything.” 

“Then how are you  _ here  _ then?” Connor questioned. “You told me that you were trained to go wandless!” 

America just raised an eyebrow. “It’s something called a secret,” he said. A southern accent began to slip from his lips, but he didn’t do much to correct it. “I can’t exactly go around saying that, can I?” 

“But how can you possibly be our Captain?” Rebecca asked curiously. 

“I just said that I’m not a wizard - I’m not helpless, you know.” 

She flushed but stood her ground. “You know what I mean.” 

“I do,” America acknowledged. “I can do a form of magic, just not the precise stuff that you guys do.” 

“Stop beating around the bush then,” Sam spoke for the first time in America’s presence. He stuck his hands in his wizarding pockets as if he were self-conscious of the attention on him. “What are you?”

“An obscurial,” America answered. “I can control the air around me after I was burned when I was younger for having magic.” 

Shocked silence followed his answer. America grew irritated - he had a lot of other stuff to do before they could leave, and he wasn’t about to waste time explaining his sob story to a bunch of wizards.

“We need to go to R&D now,” he said after a minute of growing silence. “We can walk and talk, dudes.” He spun around and continued his way to the lab. Footsteps followed him. 

“How are you still alive then?” Connor asked as he walked next to him. “Healers are trained to deal with obscurials after the chaos in the ‘20s, and we all know that they die young.” America just raised an eyebrow at that, and the field medic winced as he realized who he was talking to. Connor didn’t try to backtrack or apologize though, which America could respect.

“Am I the only one who wants to see his wind powers?” Alex asked. 

Incredulous looks were shot in her direction for her insensitivity, but America didn’t mind. He just laughed and flicked his wrist. Without looking at her, he forced the air around them to speed at and swirl around the hallway, ruffling everyone’s hair and clothes. 

“Sweet.” 

Finally, they reached the main R&D lab. America was definitely more familiar with this section of the building than the maze that is the Law Enforcement wing. He swiftly walked into the lab with his team following quietly behind him. 

“Camber!” came a sharp bark off to the side. A witch with goggles and a no-maj blow torch stormed up to their group and zeroed in on the two Camber brothers. Sam looked extremely nervous while his brother just smiled at the woman storming up to them (something America does not recommend - especially if said woman is carrying a blow torch). 

“Hey, Liza!” Will cheerfully greeted. 

“Don’t ‘hey, Liza’ me,” she growled. America probably should have intervened, especially since he wanted his team intact for at least the first week, but he didn’t. “I want both of you out!” 

“C’mon, man -”

“Save it!” she barked. “Last time you stepped foot in this lab, my projects went up in smoke!” Alex and Connor just snickered at the brother’s pale faces while Rebecca just looked disappointed. America automatically labeled her as the mom of the group -  _ she was going to have a fun time wrangling this group, _ he mused. 

He opened his mouth to intervene on the brothers’ behalf, but the shout of “Jones!” from the other side of the lab distracted him. Detaching himself from his new team, he walked over to where he thought he heard his name get called. 

America saw so many different projects being assembled and disassembled across the work tables - a myriad of sparking wires, blowtorches, metal, and wands. It was amazing. Several complicated math equations caught his eye, and he wondered if he had enough time to study them before he had to leave. 

He shook off the idea. He had a lot more work to do other than geek out in the R&D Department. 

“Alfred Jones!” a familiar voice called. “Over here!” America spotted someone waving at him and steered himself in that direction. The person who had been waving at him had been none other than the director of the department: Dr. John Brown. The director reminded him of the nuclear physicist from Back to the Future - smart, nice, and batshit crazy (the best combination). America had tried telling the wizard scientist that, but all he got in response was a blank stare (again, wizards have no sense of culture). 

Dr. Brown was the only person in MACUSA he had a good relationship with - and that was mostly because they had started working on a project five years ago. 

“Yo, Doc!” he greeted. 

“Hi, Al,” the doctor laughed. “It’s been a while, how've you been?” 

“Busy.” 

The director laughed again. “I can tell,” he shouted over the bangs and screeches of spells and machinery. “Auror Captain, really? You betray me for  _ them?”  _ Between the Law Enforcement and R&D Departments, there was a bitter rivalry over funding and space in MACUSA headquarters - and as always, the aurors were winning. America debated on telling Dr. Brown that it was really no use going against the largest department in the wizarding government but decided against it. It would be like arguing with a brick wall. 

America just smiled and yelled back, “Not my choice!” A large crash happened behind them, accompanied by screaming, but the director didn’t even bat an eyelash. Something told him that his team was probably behind it, but did he really want to act responsibly right now? 

No, he did not. 

“The President told me to give you a little gift,” the doctor said with a devious grin. He turned around to grab something on the table behind him. 

“Really?” America beamed. He  _ knew  _ that the Prez liked him! 

“Yeah,” Brown smiled at him like one of them won the lottery. “Take it.” A box was pushed into his hands.  _ It isn’t wrapped,  _ America mentally whined,  _ some present this is.  _ But when he opened the box, all of his internal griping was forgotten. 

Inside the box was one of the most beautiful guns America had ever seen. 

He sharply looked at the director, who was still giddily smiling. “You finished it?” Dr. Brown happily nodded and America looked down at the gun in his hand. 

It was his and Doc’s project that they had been working on for years - a gun whose bullets could shatter any protection spell. It was in the shape of an old revolver (a Colt Single Action Army to be specific), and America had even used his own gun that he got in the late 1800s to be the model for it. It was crafted out of goblin silver with gold embellishments to weld the charms into the body of the revolver. If he took out the bullets, he could see that they too were crafted out of goblin silver with small rune inscriptions on it. 

Switzerland would probably start crying if he saw it. (America made a mental note to show it off after everything is all said and done.) 

Beside the revolver was a leather gun holster that was probably charmed to do something. “We decided on the name Nex Revolver,” the doctor told him as he examined it. 

“You named it without me?” America asked with a stab of disappointment. 

The director had the decency to look a bit sheepish. “I wanted it to be a surprise,” he admitted. 

“Man, it’s so cool!” America cried out in excitement. “It turned out awesome!” 

Dr. Brown practically beamed. “I also added a small addition to it. If you check the left side of the handle, you’ll see a small button.” America checked, and he did, indeed, see a small button. It glowed brilliant gold against the silver handle. “Click it.” 

Well, America didn’t need to be told twice - he loved pressing unknown buttons. 

Instantly a pulsing forcefield appeared in front of him. It glowed a faint silver as it floated just in front of the gun, and it looked to be about two feet in diameter. He swung the gun around and it followed wherever the muzzle of the gun was. “Woah!” he stared at it in bewilderment. 

“It took a lot of work to get a controllable and sustainable protego charm to work,” he was informed.

“Dude, this is awesome!” America exclaimed. 

“Just press the button again for the charm to stop.” As America was experimenting with the Nex, his team had wandered over to see what they were needed for. 

“What’s that?” Connor asked over America's shoulder. 

He just gave the man a mischievous smirk and asked, “You’re good with the shield charm, right?” 

The not-secretary gave the nation a bewildered (and somewhat frightened) look. “Yeah…” 

“Great,” America chirped before scanning the lab to find. “Can you shield that?” He pointed at a picture on the wall, and the man next to him scoffed.

“Of course, kid. Easy stuff.” 

“Then do it.” Next to him, Dr. Brown gave a hearty laugh when he realized what America was about to do. Connor cast the protego charm (with his still slightly scared and very confused expression) over the picture on the wall. 

America cocked the gun with a grin - this gave him  _ so  _ many different memories from his cowboy days. Fun times, those were.

With a  _ BANG!  _ he shot the Nex and a silver bullet came flying out of the barrel. The protego charm that Connor cast, once invisible, shattered into millions of glittering silver shards and the bullet tore through the picture. 

It wasn’t even a good picture - America was doing the entire department a favor. 

But apparently, no one seemed to care about the picture as they stared at America and the gun in his hand. Dr. Brown let out an enthusiastic yell and America just gave a dark grin. 

“Guess we’re headed off to Scotland.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I wrote half of this chapter during a 12-hour car ride and it was like 1am so my tired brain went 'yA kNow WhAt'D bE FuNnY? a SpAin aND GeRmaNY cHiLd' and I went with it. So here is the crappy chapter and we're already like 8 chapters in and we're not at Hogwarts?? (I mean I guess it's better than Rowling herself when she writes 200 pages about the stuff before Hogwarts so it's not too bad). Also I apologize for the onslaught of OCs but they were kinda necessary - but the team isn't going to be a big part of the story and mainly focused on canon characters. 
> 
> But anyways I promise we'll get to Hogwarts on the next chapter


	9. Off to Hogwarts (Finally)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang makes it to Hogwarts without any major casualties - it's a fucking miracle.

After all the chaos that seemed to follow Harry like the plague, he was glad to be off to Hogwarts. He was talking about the Quidditch World Cup with other Gryffindor boys in his year including Ron (obviously), Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, and Neville Longbottom. Ron was just showing off his Krum figurine when Malfoy had to ruin the peace he was having. 

Of course, he did - it wouldn’t be Draco Malfoy if he didn’t. 

“Weasley… what is _that?”_ he demanded as he pointed to Ron’s dress robe sleeve. The sleeve was strung across Pigwidgeon’s cage in full view of its lacy and moldy glory. Before Ron could do anything, Malfoy managed to snag the sleeve and pulled the entire robe out. “Look at this!” Malfoy crowed. He showed off the old, moth-eaten dress robes to Crabbe and Goyle who cackled like a pair of hyenas. “Weasley, you weren’t thinking of _wearing_ these, were you? I mean - they were very fashionable in about 1890…” 

Ron’s face was flushed bright red, and Harry could only watch in sympathy. Before either of them could say anything, a bored voice from outside the compartment said, “Can you move? We’re trying to get through.” 

Malfoy’s attention snapped from Ron and his horrendous dress robes to the stranger’s voice in the hall. “There’s enough room for you to pass us,” Malfoy coldly informed them. The mystery person appeared in the doorway and raised a (rather thick) unimpressed eyebrow. 

“With the weight of the goons behind you and your ego, I’m surprised the train can still run properly.”

 _“Oui,”_ came a second person. “And you aren’t allowed to talk about fashion when you parade around those hideous Hogwarts robes.” The second voice had a distinct French accent, and when the man who spoke stepped into Harry’s line of sight, he wasn’t sure if anyone else could look _less_ French than the man standing in front of him. 

Malfoy’s face gained a slight tint of red (an accomplishment considering how he’s practically bleached white) and gave an arrogant sniff. “You three had nothing to do with this - leave.” Three? All Harry could see were two men standing over Malfoy - perhaps the other was still standing beyond Harry’s eyesight. 

_“Non,”_ the Frenchman said with an arrogant smirk ( _but not nearly as arrogant as Malfoy_ , Harry figured). “I think we’re plenty invested now - right, Arthur?” 

The man with the thick eyebrows - Arthur, he assumed - grunted in affirmation. “Of course.” 

“Speaking of these robes…” the Frenchman trailed off as he grabbed Ron’s dress robes from Malfoy. Ron gave a weak noise of protest and his face looked more defeated than Harry had ever seen him. “What do you think?” the man turned to his friend - Arthur.

Arthur, after a quick glare to his companion, studied the set of robes. “Well, they were definitely fashionable in the late 1800s,” he mused. The corner of his mouth quirked as if he told a joke only he could understand (well, going by the snort of his friend, a joke only the two of them could understand). “But after getting rid of the lace and mold it could be fashionable again. With a few stitches and embroidering on the pockets, of course.” 

The Frenchman beside him gave an odd sort of laugh. “Ohonhonhon~ of course, you would want embroidery on this.” 

Arthur gave his friend a sharp look. “Shut it,” he snapped. 

Malfoy looked completely confused by the exchange and just muttered “my father will hear about this” before he turned on his heel and walked away. Crabbe and Goyle ran dumbly after him. 

“His father will hear about this,” Arthur laughed, much to the amazement of everyone in Harry’s compartment. “I’m sure he will. So whose robes are these?” Ron’s face had faded to its normal pale color at some point during the bizarre interaction, but his flush was back in full swing when the man asked the question. 

“M-mine,” he stuttered quietly. Everyone in the compartment gave him sympathetic glances which only made him flush further. He snatched the robes from the Frenchman’s hands. “Nice job getting Malfoy to bugger off, by the way. I’ve never seen him leave that quickly.” Ron seemed to get his face under control and gave their new company an appraising work. 

“All in a day’s work,” the Frenchman laughed as Ron stuffed his horrible robes in his luggage. 

“Watch it, frog,” Arthur sniped at him. Harry had to wonder if they were friends - Arthur certainly didn’t seem to like the Frenchman. “You’re starting to sound like Alfred.” 

The Frenchman gave his friend(?) a panicked look. “Don’t say that, _mon ami._ I do not deserve it.” 

“Not your friend.” 

“Can you two not have this fight _again?”_ a third voice quietly (but exasperatedly, Harry noted). The duo (now trio) gathered around the doorway. 

“Er -” Harry began awkwardly, uncomfortable as the older boys turned their attention to him. “Thanks for that and all, but who are you?” 

“My name is Francis Bonnefoy,” the Frenchman introduced himself. Of course, that was his name - what other name would sound so possibly _french?_

“Arthur Kirkland,” the bushy-browed man introduced himself. 

“My name is Matthew Williams,” said the third person, who Harry hadn’t gotten a clear view of until now. He had wavy hair (somewhat similar to Francis’s) with a small curl hanging in front of his face. He wore glasses that looked like Harry’s own and his eyes had a striking blue (almost violet) tone to them. 

“Are you American?” Hermione asked curiously, putting down her copy of _Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four_ to study the strangers. 

Something indiscernible flashed through Matthew’s expression. “Canadian, actually,” he corrected before he muttered, “Alfred _wishes_ I was American.” Arthur and Francis laughed a bit too loud to be just reacting to Matthew’s joke. 

Horror and embarrassment played out across Hermione’s face as she swiftly apologized. “I’m so sorry, I just assumed because of your accent -”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Matthew waved off her apologies with a small smile on her face. “Do you think we can sit here?” 

“Sure,” Harry said, inviting the trio into their compartment because whoever can make Malfoy disappear is good in his books. “I’m sure you can find a less occupied one though.” 

“Probably,” he shrugs. “We kept getting kicked out because those two -” he pointed to Francis and Arthur, who were already glaring at each other as they sat down, “- would always start fighting.” 

_“Fighting?”_ she gaped as the boys in the compartment laughed. “Arguing, correct?” 

“Eh,” he shrugged with a small chuckle. “Something like that.” Harry just laughed while Arthur and Francis flipped off their friend in sync (while glaring at each other). Hermione looked at the two in disdain as Matthew simply rolled his eyes beside her. 

“What house are you blokes in?” Ron asked. “I’ve never seen you guys around before.” 

“Oh,” Arthur said. “We’re not students.” 

“Teachers then?” Hermione eagerly asked. Francis just laughed again while Arthur sighed. 

“Arthur wishes.” 

“While I may be able to uphold such a position,” Arthur snapped in response. “You, however, have never had the maturity to teach.”

 _“Excusez moi,”_ Francis gasped dramatically. “Sorry, but who raised Matthew while the other raised Alfred?” 

Harry wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, considering the fact that Matthew looked only a little younger than Arthur and Francis, but even to him, it sounded like a line was crossed. He could see Matthew across from him suddenly get extremely tense across from him. 

“If you remember, I’m pretty sure I was given,” he hesitated for a second as if he were considering what word to use, “ _custody_ over Matthew before he was ever an adult.” 

Harry had absolutely no idea what was going on, and the shocked and confused faces of his friends showed he wasn’t the only one. Matthew swore (something surprisingly vulgar from the previously quiet Canadian) and swiftly stood up. He grabbed both Arthur and Francis’s arms and dragged both of them out. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” the Canadian apologized. “But you probably don’t want to see those two go at each other in a cramped compartment.” 

“Wait -” Hermione tried to interject, but Matthew quickly closed the door and they could see him dragging the two older men down the train. “They never told us what they were doing on the train,” she complained with a huff. Personally, Harry didn’t want to be in a compartment with Francis or Arthur any longer than he had to, especially after such an awkward first encounter. 

“Why do you even want to know?” Ron wondered aloud as he grappled with something in his luggage. 

“Because,” Hermione rolled her eyes, “they might’ve had to do with the surprise that your brother was talking about.” 

The redhead swore as he thought of the missed opportunities. “Damn, you’re right.” Harry could see Hermione roll her eyes in a way that said _‘aren’t I always’._

Seamus awkwardly cleared his throat. “Anyone up for Exploding Snap?” That quickly turned Hermione’s attention back to her book, and the rest of their friends played games for the rest of the train ride. All thoughts of the odd trio were banished to the back of his mind for a later time. 

\------------

Apparently, the time to think about the strange trio came sooner than Harry thought. 

It was pouring outside, and the task of getting to the castle became something more along the lines of _swimming_ rather than _walking._ Stumbling through the doors miserably cold and sopping wet, Harry was just glad to have a roof over his head. 

“Blimey,” Ron groaned as he shook his head, splashing water directly onto Harry. _So this is what friendship is,_ Harry thought wryly. He could see Hermione desperately attempt to wring out her usually-poofy hair (which now laid limp as water dripped onto her already soaked robes). “If this keeps up the lake is going to overflow. I’m soa - ARGHH” 

A large red water balloon was suddenly flung from the opposite end of the corridor, hitting Ron’s already wet head. _Better him than me,_ Harry grimly thought as he prepared to dive for cover. 

“Sorry, dude!” an unknown voice yelled. Harry could a brief flash of blond hair as the mystery person ran between different hiding spaces. Above them, he could hear Peeve cackle with delight. 

“Alfred!” someone barked. The voice was familiar - Arthur, Harry guessed. The weird guy with a lot of personal issues that needed to be worked out between him and Francis. Not the greatest impression, but it was all Harry could work with. “Don’t be immature!” 

“But he started it!” the stranger - Alfred - yelled back with a distinct American accent. Peeves flung another extremely large water balloon (how much water could even fit in those things?) toward the boy who was brave - more stupid, honestly - enough to go against him. 

Harry could suddenly feel the wind pick up, chilling him to the bone in his wet and heavy clothes, in the corridor. He assumed it was from an open window or that someone opened the door from behind them, but he couldn’t hear the door open from behind him. The water balloon was picked up by the moving air - making Hermione gasp behind him - and was hurled back in Peeves' direction. 

He let out another cackle, and shrieked, “So we’re gonna play dirty, ey?” The poltergeist dived out of the chandelier he was hanging in to avoid the water balloon and seemed to watch in satisfaction as the water exploded against the ceiling. 

“C’mon,” Ron hissed, hair still dripping wet after taking the hit from the water balloon, “Let’s get out of here before Peeves decides to make our target practice.” The trio attempted to walk to the great hall, dodging the large exchange of water balloons between Peeves and Alfred, until Professor McGonagall ran up. 

“PEEVES!” she angrily yelled. “Get down here at once!” She continued to run through the corridor, but it was a mistake as she slipped and skidded on the large amount of water left on the floor. She ran into Hermione and grasped at her neck to keep her upright. “Sorry, Miss Granger…” she murmured in apology. 

A giant _BOOM_ filled the castle followed by a boisterous laugh. “Take that, you weirdo!” Alfred shouted. McGonagall turned her terrifying glare from the poltergeist floating next to the ceiling to the student who dared engage him. 

“Who was that?” she asked sharply, scanning the hall for any guilty faces. 

“It was Alfred,” a voice came from the adjoining hallway. A soaking wet and furious looking Arthur Kirkland walked out, gracefully ignoring the amount of water that he kicked up as he walked. Following him was Francis, Matthew, and whom Harry suspected to be Alfred.

He looked exactly like Matthew except with slightly shorter hair and rectangularly shaped glasses. The newcomer held himself a lot differently from the other as well (was he Matthew’s doppelganger? Brother? Twin?). He walked out with almost a strut - something that basically oozed confidence and a large amount of arrogance. 

Alfred coughed out something that sounded suspiciously like _“traitor”_ before he turned to the angry professor. 

Peeves cackled madly from overhead. “I’m not the only one in trouble this time!”

“Quiet, Peeves,” Professor McGonagall barked. “I _am_ going to call the Bloody Baron after this fiasco.” Peeves’ face drastically paled as he attempted to pout (making a horrifying face in the meantime). 

“No fun,” he wailed before zooming off into somewhere else in the castle. 

The head of the Gryffindor house sharply looked over to Alfred and the three other boys/men (they looked to be a bit older than Hogwarts age) and recognition flashed across her face. “Hello, Mr. Kirkland,” she greeted pleasantly, the majority of her previous anger gone from her voice. 

“Nice to see you again, Professor,” Arthur responded with a soft smile. To Harry, that expression looked rather odd on him because he had only seen the man wear extremely unpleasant expressions. All of them being formed out of some form of anger. 

“I presume that the rest of you are the foreign representatives?” she asked. Francis, Matthew, and Alfred nodded (though Alfred’s nod had been much more enthusiastic than the others). “The rest of you,” she turned to everyone else in the corridor, “off to the Great Hall.” 

Ron, Harry, and Hermione reluctantly turned away from the odd group and walked off the Great Hall with only a few slips and falls along the way. “I wonder what Professor McGonagall meant by foreign representatives,” Hermione wondered. 

Ron snorted. “It probably has something to do with the oh-so-secret surprise that Charlie was going on about.” 

“Maybe,” she agreed. “And did you see the magic that he was using to move the water balloons around?” Ron and Harry both shook their heads cluelessly (as usual). “It was an extremely challenging bit of charms work,” she informed them. “I didn’t even hear an incantation - did any of you?” 

Ron and Harry shook their heads again. 

“So it was also nonverbal spellwork,” she looked rather impressed. “Do you know how hard that is? The amount of focus -” Hermione continued on her tangent about nonverbal magic all the way to the Great Hall, and Harry blocked out a majority of it. Judging by Ron’s blank stare, he was too. 

The trio walked into the Great Hall and quickly sat at the Gryffindor tables - ignoring the Slytherins, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs that they passed along the way. They waited for Professor McGonagall to begin the sorting with Ron griping about the lack of food the entire time. 

“Hurry up,” he groaned. “I’m hungry enough to -” He was cut off by the large doors being opened to reveal McGonagall leading out all the first years into the Great Hall for the first time. 

And trailing the young eleven-year-olds, were the ‘foreign representatives’. To much of the surprise of the rest of the school, the four older wizards looked to be a part of the sorting. Alfred, Matthew, and Francis were looking around the Hall curiously while Arthus just cooly looked at the Sorting Hat in front of them. 

The hat opened its mouth and began to sing (ignoring the loud yelp that emitted from Alfred). 

The Sorting had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, ok I may have used a bit of dialogue from the Goblet of Fire book to push things along so sue me. And it'll probably (definitely) happen again during the GoF part of the story. 
> 
> Well I found out that I clearly cannot write in the HP character's POV as well as Hetalia's, so I'm probably not going to write too much in Harry's POV. Also side note: how do you guys feel about shipping in this story? It obviously wouldn't be a major part of the plot and it would just kinda develop the relationships of some of the characters. Tell me what you guys think! 
> 
> And I forgot a very important thing before, so I'm gonna include it now. Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or Harry Potter, I only own the plot and stuff. This is made for entertainment (well hopefully it's entertaining anyway).


	10. The Sorting Filled with Existential Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The FACE family gets sorted and America becomes weirdly deep.

America was tired. Ever since this whole situation started, it looked like that was starting to become a theme. Which sucks because wizards don’t even make good coffee. 

He was starting to miss seeing a Starbucks at every turn. 

America didn’t even have enough time to get to ride the Hogwarts express. He had to talk to his boss, and because the boss-man wasn’t allowed to know about wizards made even that simple task twenty times more complicated. He was forced into several different training sessions with his new team before they were cleared for the field. Then he had to do more stuff after that. 

America was running on less than three hours of sleep and he didn’t even know what time it was anymore. 

To get to the school at the correct time, he had to get four different portkeys. One to get to Europe (America didn’t even know where he ended up then, he just grabbed a random one outside the Woolworth Building), another to get into England, another to get to the final portkey’s position, and the last to appear at Hogsmeade. 

And of course, when he got there it was pouring rain. 

Leaving his team with orders to book rooms in the village, he ran up to a random carriage leading out of the village’s train station and made it to the castle. 

And now he was standing in line behind a hoard of small kids, listening to a magic singing hat. 

… fine, why not? This was the shit that he signed up for when he said he’d help England. But America liked it when things made sense, he liked it if they could pin a scientific reason on something. And magic had none of that stability that he craved. So what if he was a bit out of his depth? He could bear it.

He was the hero after all - even if the hero didn’t possess the powers that everyone else in this freaky world did. Everyone loves an underdog, right? 

The only comfort he had was the weight of the Nex Revolver at his hip. His one ace up his sleeve. 

_“By Gryffindor, the bravest were_

_Prized far beyond the rest;_

_For Ravenclaw, the cleverest_

_Would always be the best;_

_For Hufflepuff, hard workers were_

_Most worthy of admission;_

_And power-hungry Slytherin_

_Loved those of great ambition.”_ The hat continued to sing. All the students looked at the tattered piece of clothing, and its voice echoed across the hall uninterrupted. 

Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin? Were they the houses of this school?

Perhaps this was more similar to Ilvermorny than he thought - or, rather, Ilvermorny was more similar to Hogwarts than he thought. 

When he had been forced to tour the North American school, he was also forced into the sorting ceremony _(which was much more badass than a singing hat,_ America decided with a smothered smile). Where the houses of Ilvermorny were: Horned Serpent, the scholars; Wampus, the warriors; Thunderbird, the adventurers; and Pukwudgie, the healers. 

He had simply stepped onto the Gordian Knot in their entrance hall and waited for the statues to react to him. It took some time, but the Horned Serpent, Wampus, and Thunderbird stature rolled forward to present themselves to America. The Pukwudgie statue remained silent and unmovable - he wasn’t too sure about what that said about himself, but he didn’t dwell on it too much at the time. Now, as he faced the still singing hat, he wondered if he would finally figure out why. 

But America was faced with a choice long ago at Ilvermorny. How would he present himself to his wizarding community? The scholar, or the warrior, or the adventurer? 

That was in 1897, so maybe he’s changed more as a person now, but he still felt just uneasy about the decision now as he did then. 

In the end, he had chosen the Thunderbird statue. The adventurer - he felt like it suited him then. But did it still? After everything that happened, how fast the world had changed, was he still the same adventurer he thought he was? The person that had charged headfirst into the modern age without looking back, the innovator, the explorer? It was hard to tell. 

He was faced with the same situation now, but was this sorting even his choice? 

From the hat’s song, it sounded like the Gryffindor was for the bold and the brave; the Ravenclaw was for the clever and the creative; the Hufflepuff for the hard-working and the humble; and the Slytherin for the shrewd and the ambitious. 

Did he belong in one? Or did he belong to none? Or was he forced to make a choice again - one that mirrored the same choice he had to make almost a hundred years ago? 

This was something that was going to define him for the next year (whether he liked it or not) and he had no idea what to do. 

Obviously, he was the hero - he should go into Gryffindor. Or was he the nation that grew and grew until he became the only global superpower? Or was he the person that was so naturally curious about the world around him, and the person that helped someone put an American flag on the moon? 

There were so many different fragments of himself floating in his mind, and it was impossible to tell which one was large enough to force the hat’s decision. 

In the back of his mind, he realized that the hat’s song was over and that the sorting of the younger children had begun. 

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool,” the witch that England called McGonagall told the children. “When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table.” She then lifted what looked like an ancient scroll and began the sorting with “Ackerly, Stewart!” 

Little Stewart ran up to the hat, and while America couldn’t see the poor boy’s expression, he could tell he was nervous with his shaking hands and stumbling feet. He sat on the stool, his face unnaturally pale with fear, and his head disappeared under the hat. After only two seconds, the hat shouted out “RAVENCLAW” and the sorting continued similarly. 

Perhaps it wasn’t the student’s choice of where they get placed (which seemed rather unfair to America but let it slide for now) and the hat just read their mannerisms and personality to sort them as efficiently as possible. It was hard to tell, but America doubted it had magic strong enough to dig into a person’s memory just because of a brief contact - even magic had limitations. 

On a side note, that stool was ridiculously small. Did old Dumbles really expect for him to sit on the thing? Putting on the hundreds (perhaps thousands) year old hat was already bad enough - but sitting on a stool that would force his knees up to his chest? In front of thousands of kids? 

Thanks, but no thanks. 

The sorting continued to weed through the squirts quickly, shouting out “GRYFFINDOR!” or “HUFFLEPUFF!” or “RAVENCLAW!” or the occasional “SLYTHERIN!”

Whenever the hat shouted out the last house, it was met with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm compared to the others. With the occasional hissing (which America assumed was offensive - but he wouldn’t mind being hissed at. Snakes are pretty cool). 

He frowned. Why would Slytherin be the most unlikeable house? Why would there even _be_ an unlikeable house? 

From what he had seen at Ilvermorny in the brief time he was there, all the different houses intermingled to the point where it didn’t even matter who was from where. The teachers told him that they placed students of the different houses together in class to gain a different perspective - and that it probably worked too well. 

He was told that after that policy was put in place, house fights occurred internally rather than externally. Too many of the same people in one place, apparently. America had a feeling that that wouldn’t be too much of a problem here.

But then again this is nothing like Ilvermorny (though America will swear until he dies that it's better than Hogwarts just by the sorting ceremony alone). 

Finally, with a “Whitby, Kevin!” who was quickly sorted into Hufflepuff, the nations were standing in the hall alone with the eyes of all the different houses on them. 

America, not one to be quelled by attention, raised his chin in defiance. He would have even raised a challenging eyebrow as well, but he figured that that wouldn’t help too much with his cover. Canada shuffled awkwardly next to him while France and England stayed still as they coolly surveyed the scene in front of him. 

“Before we begin the feast,” Dumbledore began as murmurs rolled across the hall. “Hogwarts will be the host to many different guests this year. In the attempt to strengthen foreign relations between schools and counties, they have sent some ambassadors to participate in a Hogwarts schedule with the house they will soon be sorted into.” America could feel the curious stares burning into him, but he tried to brush them off. It happens all the time anyway, he should be used to it by now. 

“They will be a part of the fifth year and are to be treated as normal students, although they may be exempt from homework and assessments that the rest of the class will have to participate in,” the Headmaster continued. He mentally cheered. No homework or tests? _Sweet!_ “However, students and teachers are welcomed and heavily encouraged to ask questions about their careers and lives in different countries.” … not so sweet. Alright, so maybe he’ll be a walking exhibit for people to bounce their questions off of, that’s fine. He could work with that (sorta). 

“For the introductions,” Dumbledore cheerfully said, “meet Alfred Jones, the representative from America,” he forced a huge grin to split across his face and enthusiastically waved toward the students in the hall. He could see some people who witnessed his battle between him and Peeves looking on curiously. 

“Arthur Kirkland, the representative from England.” England just briefly raised his hand in greeting as questions rolled across the hall. 

_‘Why is there a rep from England?’_

_‘Doesn’t Hogwarts take students from England, anyway?’_

_‘Why is he here?’_

England seemed to take this with unusual grace (which means not screaming curses at twelve-year-olds) and just waited for the crazy wizard to continue. “Mr. Kirkland is also the overseer of this project,” Dumbledore carried on and the whispers eventually died out. From the slight slump of his incredibly tense shoulders, he could see that England was glad that they did. 

“From France, meet Francis Bonnefoy.” France just gave a sly wink and gave a brief wave with a small cocksure smirk - in that greeting alone, France basically summed up his whole personality. America personally wants to see how he gets along with so many kids - and which one dies first. 

“And last, but certainly not least,” Dumbledore chuckled as if he told an excellent joke. That weird gleam in his eye had certainly not faded since the last time they spoke. “Is Canada’s representative, Matthew Williams.” Canada just gave a small grin and wave (though longer than both England and France’s). America briefly wondered where his polar bear was, but couldn’t dwell on the thought for too long as Dumbledore called for the sorting to begin. 

“Bonnefoy, Francis,” McGonagall called out. A hush settled over the hall, and France looked slightly distressed at the idea of sitting down on such a small stool. He sat down anyways and allowed for the thousands-year-old hat to be placed on his head (though America did catch his wince once it touched his hair). England let out a snicker at his old rival’s anguish and it seemed to echo across the hall as all of the other students were silent. 

After about a minute (which was much longer than any of the sortings that the other’s had), the house bellowed out “RAVENCLAW!” The Ravenclaw house, which Alfred assumed was the blue table with the emblem of an _eagle_ (which opens a lot of questions that no one had time to answer), cheered the loudest, apparently happy to have a foreign representative stay with them for a year. America smirked. _If only they knew._

All too soon, the witch holding the hat called out “Jones, Alfred!” and silence fell over the hall again as America walked forward the stool. He stared down at it as it seemed to be less than a foot tall which makes it even more humiliating. He caught the sight of Canada beginning to smirk when he saw him hesitate, which sealed his nerves long enough to sit down and have the hat placed on his head. 

_“Well, well, well,”_ a deep voice echoed inside of his mind. _“Another nation, it seems.”_

 _I guess so,_ America thought back. It was sentient? His mind whirled with the possibilities, the ability to create a sentient mind out of nothing could change the world! If he got this idea to the R&D Department -

 _“This magic has faded out of existence hundreds of years ago,”_ the hat spoke into his mind. It seemed to almost chuckle, which made the whole experience much more unnerving. _“I can read your mind, you know.”_ Oh. Right. Of course. The hat just laughed again. _“Let’s see what your history holds then, America…”_

 _Couldn’t you just open a history book?_ He desperately asked. It felt like a gross invasion of his privacy to go through _all_ of his memories. 

_“I’m afraid not.”_ Images zoomed through America’s mind’s eye, flying too fast for him to process, but he could hear the sounds. Laughter. Yelling. Screams. The cracks of whips and gunshots littered across his life and history. It all blended together as this _thing_ attempted to place him somewhere to blend in with children. Fun. _“So not Hufflepuff,”_ the hat mused. 

_Why not?_ America tried to ask.

 _“Well, loyalty seems to be an issue,”_ the hat answered haltingly as if surprised he dared to question its decisions. 

_What?_

_“Well, first you turned against your own brother in the Seven Years War to allow him to be taken away from his caretaker, then you fought against your other brother for your own needs, then you immediately turned away France after he requested your aid during his own revolution… do I need to go on?”_

_No, I’m good,_ America answered. He could see those memories fly by, memories of him turning his back to someone he had cared for - some were what the hat had said, while many others were of times much more recently. 

_“You wondered why the Pukwudgie did not accept you,”_ the hat continued, merciless as painful memories flashed before his eyes. _“The reason why was because you do not heal people, America. You can help them grow and prosper or you can defend them, but you cannot heal the wounds you have left on others.”_

America wanted to protest… but he found that he couldn’t. All he could see was England getting sick on the first week of every July, or the way that Canada flinches each time he shows up unexpectedly at his house or the way that France throws him deadly looks each time they celebrate either of their revolutions together. And so many other nations. 

_“Do not worry,”_ the hat tried to reassure him, _“while your talents may not lie in healing or loyalty, you have other things.”_

 _Like what?_ He couldn’t help but ask curiously. 

_“You’re very intelligent,”_ the hat answered. _“Despite what many of the others may think. You had always loved science and learning, but that is not what fuels you -”_ the desperation to get to the moon first just to beat the Soviets. The technological advances that were to show Europe that he _could_ belong and that he _would_ be strong enough to be respected. _“So perhaps Ravenclaw is not the correct option.”_

 _“You are certainly ambitious,”_ the sorting hat mused, showing memories of the early dreams of beating the British Empire and being his own republic, of him claiming land from the Atlantic to Pacific. _“And you’re cunning -”_ flashes of the painfully recent Cold War appeared in his mind. The master chess game between him and the Soviet Union, balancing the world on a razor fine edge as each day a nuclear war may break out. _“A perfect candidate for Slytherin…_

 _“And then there is Gryffindor,”_ the hat’s laugh echoed down the spiral of America’s memories, _“the house that everyone, including yourself, expects you to land in. Why?”_

 _Because I’m the hero!_ America tried to reason. _I love saving people, helping them when I can…_

 _“Hmmm,”_ the hat hums, unconvinced. America couldn’t even convince himself, much less a dumb hat. The thousands-year-old sorting hat continued to scroll through his memories, and while there were a lot, he was entirely positive that France had more memories than he did. 

_Why’s this taking so long?_

_“You’re asking why I did not take this long with France?”_

_Yep._

_“You’re interesting,”_ the hat bluntly answered. _“And confusing. You are the picture-perfect Slytherin, yet you value all things Gryffindor… you’re a paradox if you will.”_

_Okay… so while I’m here anyway, could you clear something up for me?_

_“Certainly,”_ the hat responded, sounding somewhat amused at the situation. 

_What makes someone a Gryffindor and what makes someone a Slytherin?_

_“Well,”_ the hat began, _“I am not naive enough to believe that each person neatly fits into one house, but there are tell-tale traits that will land you in one or the other. In Slytherin, they are ambitious, cunning, determined, with a strong leadership quality, among other things.”_

 _That does sound like me,_ America unhelpfully agreed. The hat’s sigh told him that he didn’t help its decision at all. 

_“While in Gryffindor, they are brave, bold, confident, passionate, and other things. They’re also known to be trusting which you have repeatedly proven time and time again that you are not.”_

_So… if I’m a perfect Slytherin, why not just put me there and be done with this?_

_“Because,”_ the hat sighed again like he wanted to be done with the conversation, _“it does not simply matter what you_ are _but what you_ value.” 

_Oh. Makes perfect sense,_ America commented dryly. The continuous slideshow of his memories gave him a headache, and they were digging up so many things he _so_ did not want to think about. 

_“Your incessant claims to be the hero have placed your values in Gryffindor,”_ the hat tried to explain. _“Because you always try to do what you believe is the right thing, but your actions to achieve that goal of goodness would put you in Slytherin. You can see my dilemma.”_

 _Uh,_ America said intelligently. _I think so._

 _“Good,”_ the hat sounded amused, _“I believe that our little talk has given me some insight. Thank you, Mr. Jones.”_

America tried to think _‘No problem, dude’_ but was rudely interrupted by the hat blasting “GRYFFINDOR!” into his eardrums. Maybe that was payback for confusing him so much, but it wasn’t like it was his fault he was such a screwed up person. (Yes, he understood the irony, and no, he does not want to correct that statement.) 

Unlike France’s announcement, he was met with momentarily stunned silence before the Gryffindors started cheering the loudest he had ever heard them. He could see McGonagall studying him out of the corner of his eye but just walked down to the Gryffindor table without saying anything. 

“Mate,” a redhead laughed while another identical redhead appeared on the opposite side of him, “why the hell were you up there for so long?” 

“What?” America was confused - he wasn’t up there for that long, right? 

“Seven minutes!” the other exclaimed loudly. “You beat Minnie’s record!” 

“Minnie?” he repeated tiredly. He was up there for _seven minutes?_ It only felt like two, maybe three at most. 

“Professor McGonagall,” a boy sitting across from him nodded in the direction of the witch holding the sorting hat. “I’m Lee Jordan, by the way,” he introduced himself. The boy was black with dreadlocks, and judging by the mischievous smile on his face, he was definitely one of the troublemakers. Was America just a magnet for people who liked to break the rules? 

“Yeah,” the first redhead dismissed. 

“But who cares about him,” his twin (America assumed the two redheads were twins) continued. 

“When you got us?” the first finished. “Fred and George Weasley. I’m Fred, the less handsome twin is George.” 

“Bugger off,” George laughed. “Everyone knows I’m the best.” 

“If it helps you sleep at night, Georgie.” 

“Ignoring them,” Lee interrupted the sibling bickering. “Were you the guy who was battling Peeves with water balloons?” Instantly, two demonic grins broke across the Weasley twins faces as the trio stared at America. 

He shrugged and asked, “What I was?” 

“Then you’re definitely our new best friend,” Fred slung his arm across America’s shoulder. 

“And since you don’t have to do homework,” George grinned wickedly, “imagine the type of chaos you could do.” 

“Have I been replaced that easily?” Lee questioned with a dramatic gasp and his hand placed on his heart. “After six years of friendship - betrayed!” 

“You’ll get over it,” the twins said in sync without a glance at their friend. Lee just laughed like it was used to it. Over the chaos of talking to the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan, he could just barely hear England get sorted into Slytherin. 

It fit him though. What with being the largest empire in history - if that doesn’t say ambition, America didn’t know what did. 

“So what houses was the hat debating about?” George questioned. 

“Mostly Slytherin and Gryffindor,” America answered truthfully, not really liking the recoil on their faces when he said that. “Why? What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, mate,” Lee butted in before either Fred or George could say something. “You’re here now, and that’s all that matters.” Both of the twins looked like they wanted to say something, but after a stern look from Lee, they apparently decided to keep their mouths shut. 

In the background, he could hear Canada get sorted into Ravenclaw with France. He was a bit disappointed that he didn’t have his twin with him, but he figured that he would probably like Ravenclaw better anyways. When the two had lived together as colonies, Canada had always preferred staying inside the library than playing with the animals outside. 

Dumbledore stood up and clapped his hands. “I only have two words for you: tuck in.” And with that, the entire table filled up with food - the only problem was that it was specifically _English_ food. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So idk what the hell happened in this chapter. Just a note but when the sorting hat is talking to Alfred, he’s talking to the character and NOT referring to any political relations between countries. But anyways thank you to everyone who leaves a comment, kudos, or bookmark when reading this story! A little disclaimer: I did use a part of the sorting hat song from GoF (please don't sue me I'm broke) and I don't own any aspect to Hetalia or Harry Potter


	11. Reasons Why Dumbledore is Batshit Crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so here begins America's experience at Hogwarts. It's... something.

America wasn’t entirely sure if it was because he was still stewing in his own personal angst or the traumatizing kitchen fires, but he refused to eat the mass amount of food in front of him. It looked good at least, but he eventually figured out that pretty things are usually the things that lead to the most disappointment. 

“You alright?” Fred asked. America could literally only tell which twin was which was because of their positions, and he just knew it was going to lead to a headache in the future. Was this how people felt around him and Mattie? 

Weird. 

“Yeah, dude. Perfect,” America responded distractedly. He continued to stare at the food that magically appeared in front of him. _I can’t heal the people I care about?_ He wondered blankly, memories still flickering through his mind. _What’s the point of being the hero if I can’t pick up the pieces afterward?_

“Seriously,” George continued his train of thought. “You’re missing out. Hogwarts has the greatest food in the world.” _That_ knocked him out of his head. America laughed at the idea - they didn’t even have burgers, how could this place have the greatest food in the world? 

“You guys haven’t been out of the UK, have you?” America asked with a laugh. Even if Hogwarts had good food by British standards, he doubted that it held a candle to the rest of the world's cuisine. Even his own food, which is saying something. 

And no, he’s not just talking about burgers (though they are included). 

He could see the trio shrug off the question with smiles and turned their attention back to their food. “Still,” Fred said with his mouth full of mashed potatoes, “it is pretty good. You gotta try it.” 

Well. If other people like it, maybe it isn’t completely ruined like the food England had cooked for him as a colony. He hesitantly scooped some of the surrounding food onto his plate, and he had to admit that it was better than he expected. Even though his expectations were pretty low to begin with, so maybe it isn’t an accomplishment. 

After everything was said and done, he would agree that it wasn’t poisoned and that he could survive off of it for the next year. (But if he couldn’t get any burgers for that long, there were going to be some problems.) 

“So,” Lee drew out the word as if he was considering what to ask. “What’s it like? America?” 

That dragged him into a discussion about America vs. the United Kingdom and Ireland - which made him think of him going up against the Kirkland brothers, and it was a horrifying thought. Somehow the conversation gradually drifted over to quidditch like it always did with European wizards (seriously, what is up about that? It’s like they have nothing else to talk about). 

“Your quidditch team is pretty much shit,” an Irish boy who introduced himself as Seamus Finnigan said. 

“Quidditch isn’t too big in the states,” America responded and enjoyed the disgust and horror that was displayed across the group’s faces. You would have thought he personally killed the queen. “There are a lot better sports out there, dudes.” He really just enjoyed egging them on at that point. 

Apparently, a lot of other kids were listening in on the _‘fancy American rep’_ and a lot of silverware crashed onto the floor in shock. He couldn’t even try to force his smirk to disappear. _“What?”_ another redhead spluttered a bit aways from where he was sitting. Across from him was another kid who would probably look less scandalized if he stripped naked on the table in front of him. 

The scandalized kid looked a bit familiar - the messy black hair, the eyes, the _scar…_ Holy shit, it was _Harry Potter,_ the second reason why he was stuck in a school full of high school students. 

America forced himself not to react. It honestly wasn’t that big of a deal, anyway, seeing as he didn’t even know who the kid was until he was forced into a week-long research session about the first wizarding war against the Death Eaters and Voldemort (wizards are the worst at naming things). It was fine - he met countless movie stars, Presidents, Queens, Kings. He could handle a _kid._

But as the dubbed ‘savior of the wizarding world’ (by _only_ the British Ministry of Magic) stared at him with such a shocked expression on his face, it was becoming harder and harder to not react. 

“You heard me,” was all America said. The shocked and enraged faces surrounded him were some of the best entertainment of the night - singing hats included. 

“Name one,” a burly girl next to Fred demanded. America thinks he heard Fred call her Angelina? 

“Dueling.” 

“That’s illegal,” a bushy-haired witch sitting next to Harry Potter immediately cut herself into the conversation. 

America sighed. He was going to get tired of explaining this to each European witch or wizard he stumbled across. “Unsupervised dueling is, yeah, but regulated dueling is America’s most popular wizarding sport.” 

He waited for the inevitable onslaught of questions and demands and _how dare he slander the only magical European sport._

Before any of that could happen, he saw something that made him want to scream. Floating in front of him, just behind the frizzy-haired girl, was a ghost. It looked like something directly out of a horror movie and - _oh god, was his head only held onto his body by one strip of skin?_

He could feel his face drain of color and bit back a scream - unheroic, yes, but to be fair, it was a literal ghost. In the process of trying not to freak out, he let out a _very_ unheroic squeak of fear. Luckily, America wasn’t as easily humiliated as that (meaning that his ego could take a lot of hits before it begins to deflate) and just forced his gaze away from the ghost. 

Looking around the hall, he could see that (to his absolute horror) there were even more ghosts surrounding the tables. All the students didn’t really seem to mind, and the majority of them didn’t seem nearly as horrific as the ghost-dude in front of him. 

He was going to kill England. He had a gun on him right now - he could totally do it. But he won’t because he’s a good person, unlike _someone._

Angelina seemed to catch on to America’s growing terror and said, “That’s Nearly Headless Nick - he’s our house ghost, but he’s harmless.” Like that was assuring. 

Now that his original shock was wearing off, he could see Harry Potter and his two friends strike up a conversation with the lost horror movie special effect. He also realized how utterly screwed he was if there were multiple ghosts in the castle. 

Hell, with the movie paintings _and_ the ghosts, there was absolutely no one way that Dumbledore wasn’t monitoring him _(and the other nations,_ he supposed). 

Again, he was going to kill England. Couldn’t he have come up with a better plan than this? 

First, he is forced to eat English food 24/7 (America wondered how France was coping with that), and now he was forced to _live_ with _ghosts._

Was he a bad person for wanting to leave immediately? America didn’t think so, but there was that pesky magical terrorist problem…

Whatever. He could deal - or he’ll figure out a way to - because he was the hero, and he had to do this. 

He could do this while avoiding those monstrosities. 

But as soon as he thought the word _monstrosity_ he felt guilty. That wasn’t fair of him - they couldn’t help that they took the form of something so irreconcilably terrifying; and besides, America was technically a monstrosity too. 

The volatile and deadly obscurial - as if he could ever forget. 

A sudden _clang_ drew America away from his swirling thoughts (which was probably a good thing). Down the table a little ways, the frizzy-haired girl next to Harry Potter looked a mixture of furious, disgusted, and disappointed - something that he had seen on a lot of authority figures throughout his long life. And for some reason, she was staring right at him. 

What the fuck did he do now? 

“Um, excuse me?” the girl called out to him almost hesitantly despite her ferocious expression. “Mr. Jones?” 

“Alfred’s fine,” he called across the table with a smile. “Hell, call me Al if you want to.” The girl flushed a bit and gave him a tentative smile. 

“Right. Uh, so Mr. Jones - er, Alfred,” she stuttered. Judging by her frustrated expression, she usually wasn’t this tongue-tied. America felt a tiny bit bad for her. 

“What’s up?” he asked casually. 

“How does America feel about house elves?” came the abrupt question. _How does America feel about house elves?_

It was complicated. 

“Uh,” he intelligently began. The trio just looked at him curiously while everyone he was previously talking to seemed to notice who he was talking to, rolled their eyes, and started talking about something else (most of the conversations were about quidditch - it’s becoming a serious problem). “It’s a bit different than here.” 

The girl looked even more excited then. He could feel a small headache spike just behind his forehead - house elves still were a touchy subject with MACUSA… 

“Thank god,” she sighed to herself with a self-satisfied grin shot in the redhead’s direction. 

“He hasn’t even told you anything yet,” the redhead (who bore a strange resemblance to Fred and George) huffed. “Maybe they treat ‘em worse.” 

At the girl’s slightly annoyed and crestfallen expression, America quickly intervened. “We don’t. Treat them worse, that is.” 

“Really?” The girl looked relieved when he nodded. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Hermione Granger,” she introduced herself. “So how _are_ house elves treated in America?” 

“Uh,” he spluttered. How in the world did he explain the decades-long conflict between MACUSA and the MOC? The MOC (Magic Organization of Creatures) was the largest volunteer and nonprofit organization in magical America which was dedicated to giving magical creatures a political presence. One of their biggest concentrations were house elves - just below centaurs and goblins - and arguments between MOC and traditionalists in congress continued to escalate. 

America got a headache just thinking about it. 

“Well, first thing you gotta understand is that there are different kinds of house elves,” he tried to explain around a mouthful of food. Hermione had the vague air of being disgusted but was apparently too interested in what he was saying to comment on his eating habits. For which he was thankful. 

“What?” the redhead demanded. “House elves are all the same, aren’t they?” 

“Eh,” America shrugged. “Kinda. But after a while with different cultures they became different - we don’t really know how to categorize them. I’m pretty sure America is the only place where you can see all the different kinds in one place. I don’t know how you Brits raise them, but elves from the UK are definitely the most friendly I’ve met.” 

“Wait,” Harry interrupted, “So not all elves _want_ to cook and clean and stuff?” 

America snorted at the idea. “Hell, no,” he paused for a second, considering the communication between different wizarding governments. “It’s not your fault for not knowing that - no wizarding society that I know allows negative information about them to leave their borders.”

Hermione looked invigorated while the redheaded boy looked dismayed. “So the house elves here _are_ being brainwashed to do work without pay?” 

“Dudes, it’s complicated,” America began. “Not a lot is known about house elves, but from what I can see, elves here are really happy to do their work.” Even though he desperately wished they weren’t. House elf labor had always left a bad taste in his mouth, but no one really knew what to do about it. “Like those German elves? They’re batshit -” 

“Prussian elves, you mean?” the redheaded boy interrupted. America could feel his heart stop - _Prussian?_

“What?” America demanded, whipping his head up from his food. He was pretty sure he snapped his neck, but that didn’t matter because it was _Prussia._

Was he alive?

“Well, yeah,” the boy said, glancing at his two friends like it was obvious. “The Magical Democracy of Prussia? MDP?” 

“Prussia was a country that was dissolved after World War II,” Hermione flatly told her friend. The boy gave her a bewildered look. 

“What’s World War II?” 

_He needed to get out of there. Immediately._

America gave an incredulous laugh to block the blood rushing in his ears. “It’s too early for this.” 

Harry Potter made a huge show of checking the small watch on his wrist. “It’s 7:43.” 

“Is that what time it is?” America didn’t have enough caffeine for this - scratch that, he didn’t have any caffeine _at all._ Which was a big problem. 

Before any of them could continue one of the most bewildering conversations that America had ever had, Dumbledore stood up from his seat to begin some sort of speech. “So,” Dumbledore began, forcing America to put that hell of a conversation in the back of his mind (for now). “Now that we are all fed and watered -” Hermione gave a large huff. “- I must ask once more for your attention, while I give out a few notices.

“Mr. Flich, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle…” _blah, blah, blah._ America wasn’t particularly paying attention. Looking around the Gryffindor table, all he could see were vacant stares directed toward the Headmaster. At least he wasn’t the only one. “As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year.” 

Now his interest was piqued. A forbidden forest? Sounds more interesting than school. He glanced at Harry and his redheaded friend, both of whom had very prominent smirks on their faces. _They totally went into the forest._

He opened his mouth to question what exactly was in the scary forbidden forest, but Dumbledore continued with his announcements. “It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.” There was such a shocked and enraged reaction from the people around him that America just _had_ to laugh. They gave him no choice, really. He gleefully ignored the very violent looking glares thrown his way. 

“This is due,” Dumbledore continued as if he hasn’t heard that protests echoing around him, “to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy - but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely.” Oh, right, the Triwizard Tournament. 

America personally thought that the gladiator games went out of style when the Roman Empire fell, but whatever. 

“I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts -” 

But at that moment, there was a deafening clap of thunder and the large double doors were slammed open. America’s first thought when his eyes landed on the person who barged into Hogwarts wasn’t on his appearance or anything like that. It was: 

_What a dramatic motherfucker._

Maybe he accidentally said it out loud. That would explain the scandalized looks that younger students were sending him (and maybe some “mature” upperclassmen students - can he even call them that? Whatever). 

His entire appearance screamed _dramatic_ to America, but it also screamed _reckless._ How in the world did he lose an eye and get all of those scars unless he got up close and personal to a dark magical creature? It was just physical proof of the dude just being a dumbass. 

America probably shouldn’t judge, but after he heard the _clunk_ that echoes across the hall, he really couldn’t help himself. He glanced at all of the other students around him, only to see horrified and shocked faces. He strained his eyes over to his fellow nations to see them equally as unimpressed. 

Thank god he wasn’t the only one. 

France particularly didn’t care as he barely even glanced up from setting the food around him on fire with his wand. _Mature._

The dude looked like there was a chunk taken out of his nose, has a fake magical eyeball (which America had to admit it was cool, even if the guy was a dumbass for needing it), and a wooden peg. After a lot of limping and echoed steps, the man made it up to the staff table. 

“May I introduce our new Defence Against the Arts teacher? Professor Moody.” 

Okay, so America _knew_ that Dumbledore was crazy, just not that _much._ Did the guy really want this man teaching young children how to defend themselves? Judging by the number of scars, fake eye, and a peg leg, this ‘Professor Moody’ had more of a track of _losing_ fights than _winning_ them. 

It was irritating to know that America could probably teach that class better, and he can’t even use a wand. 

Silence seemed to engulf the hall as small whispers spread around him. “Moody?” he could hear Harry Potter murmur. _“Mad-Eye Moody?_ The one your dad went to help this morning?” 

Similar hisses spread across the table, none ever loud enough to be heard more than five feet away. “Well,” America blurted out a bit louder than he meant it to be, “that was dramatic.” 

Everyone in the hall turned to stare at him in disbelief (excluding England, Canada, and France, all of whom probably suspected he was going to say something stupid). Dumbledore just smiled, though his pleasant expression didn’t thaw the frigidness in his eyes. 

“Yes, it was, Mr. Jones,” he agreed with a small chuckle. Mad-Eye Moody just stared at him and it was slowly becoming unnerving. “As I was saying, we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for in over a century. It is my great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.” 

_Right, so let’s just ignore whatever the hell happened with Moody and continue with the games that result in kids getting killed. Fun._

“You’re JOKING!” Fred shouted from right beside him. And he was _loud._ The tension that continued to build up since the arrival of the worst professor America has ever seen broke. Nearly everyone laughed, including America - not because he thought anything was funny but just because he liked to laugh. 

“I am not joking, Mr. Weasley,” the old, crazy wizard assured. (Though America wished that he was completely joking.) “Though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar…” The students and staff were thankfully saved from Dumbledore’s most likely terrible joke when McGonagall loudly cleared her throat. “Er - but maybe this is not the best time…” 

Like America said, that wizard was fucking _insane_. 

Dumbledore goes on to explain (glorify) the Triwizard Tournament, increasing the excitement of his students by every word. Hermione looked to be the only one who actually cared when the old wizard said that the games were shut down because of the rising _death toll._

He had a feeling that he was going to like her. 

Besides, if someone died, that would totally give him more work that he definitely did not want. 

“However,” Dumbledore continued his very long explanation, “our own Departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another event.” 

A large spike of annoyance went through America’s mind when Dumbledore brought up the departments in the Ministry of Magic. Department of International Magical Cooperation…they had no excuse for not continuing to investigate what happened at the Quidditch World Cup which was the last international event. 

Now, they’re trying to get together witches and wizards from different countries (which means a much larger audience) filled to the brim with defenseless kids… it’s like a picnic for the Death Eater terror group. The only comfort he had was that President Romero would fire the fuck-up who thought that was a good idea in MACUSA. 

It was a small but needed comfort. 

Of course, instead of any of the other respectable wizarding schools in the world, they had to invite Durmstrang - which means that _Russia_ might show up. America totally did not need Russia coming here and fucking up his whole investigation - he’d probably kill the damn bastard before he stepped a foot inside the castle. 

Ol’ Dumbles continued to explain the age limit for entering which was seventeen-years-old. He ignored the furious faces that surrounded him as he thought of the different challenges that the British Department of Magical Games and Sports submitted to different countries (which did not include America - he tried not to feel too offended). Those challenges were _insane_ and they think that dueling should be illegal?

The hypocrisy is strong with this one. 

“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of the school year,” Dumbledore carried on. America could only grit his teeth and pray to any god in any religion that Russian wouldn’t come. “I know that you will all extend every courtesy to all of our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!” 

Who the hell ends a speech with _‘chop chop’_? That’s going on the ever-growing list of _Why Dumbledore is Batshit Crazy._

There was a pause, and students were led out of the hall to their dormitories. He could hear the twins swearing up and down that they will enter the tournament and that they thought that the age restriction was ridiculous. America could only roll his eyes, but he knew that if he was a kid here that he would try to fool the Goblet of Fire too. 

_And_ he’d get away with it because he’s that awesome. 

“All the foreign ambassadors are asked to stay in the Great Hall to personally meet the staff,” McGonagall called out as America stood to leave. He couldn’t stop the groan that escaped his mouth and dragged his feet over to where France and Canada were standing. 

“Hey, dudes!” he greeted cheerfully, ignoring the pang in his chest when he met Canada’s eyes. _You cannot heal the wounds you left on others,_ the hat’s voice echoed in his head. He pushed it back - what did a weird old hat know about? He was the hero!

“Hey, Al,” Canada said. His twin opened his mouth to say something more, but France cut him off.

“We met the weirdest person in this school,” the older nation said bluntly. 

“Don’t say that,” Canada sharply reprimanded. 

“She wears radishes on her ears,” France deadpanned. 

“Okay, so Luna’s a little strange -” 

France made a strangled noise. “A _little?”_

“Who are you guys talking about?” America interrupted their conversation/ argument. 

“Luna Lovegood,” Canada answered. “Third year Ravenclaw.” 

“So… she’s a kid,” America said doubtfully. “You’re ragging on a kid, dude. Not cool.” 

“You have not met her, _mon ami,”_ France said desperately. “It’s like Arthur and his fairies -” 

“Don’t talk shit about me, frog,” England walked up behind him. 

“Okay,” Canada quickly intervened. “Let’s not fight in front of the teachers.” America laughed at Canada’s frantic attempt at breaking up a potential fight between England and France. It’s impossible to stop them when they get going. And then he remembered that Canda rode the train with them to the school and laughed harder. 

“Yeah, guys,” America teased. “Wouldn’t want to get detention on the first day.” England looked pained at the reminder he was at a school - specifically this school, considering the fact that it’s probably Scotland’s pride and joy. “Anyways,” America hesitated as he considered how to approach his question. “Did the hat tell you what house he knocked out first?” 

“Hufflepuff.”

“Hufflepuff.” 

“Hufflepuff.” 

He let out a relieved sigh. He wasn’t the only one. “Same, dudes. Do you guys know why?” He just had to know. _You cannot heal the wounds you left on others_ repeated over and over. 

“Something about a lack of loyalty to my family,” England shrugged as if he couldn’t care less. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much - for,” he glanced around at the near-empty hall and lowered his voice, “ _our kind_ it’s impossible to truly remain loyal at all times. If ordered, we may have to hurt others we care about.”

America winced - he knew that all too well. 

“Same here,” Canada agreed with furrowed eyebrows and kept glancing nervously (and not subtle at all) at America’s chest. Probably at the burn that covered his heart. 

_“Oui, mon ami._ What about you, Alfred?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “And why were you up there for so long?” 

“Well,” America tried to give a nonchalant shrug, “the hat knocked out Hufflepuff first and debated between Slytherin and Gryffindor for a long time.” 

“Thank _god_ you aren’t in my house,” England huffed. “I don’t know if I would have survived.” 

“Nah. It would have been awesome!” The word _awesome_ set off a pang in America’s heart - it reminded him too much of Prussia a lot of the time. 

England made a noise of disagreement before walking over to the teachers, forcing America, Canada, and France to follow. They were introduced to a lot of strange teachers (including the divination teacher, Trelawney, who looked as crazy as Dumbledore acted and Snape, the potions teacher, who looked like he wasn’t ever introduced to a bottle of shampoo) before America and Canada stood in front of Moody. 

The dude stared at Canada for a long time - long enough to make the North American twins extremely uncomfortable. “Why can’t I see you?” he growled after a minute of growing tension. 

“I’m sorry,” Canada said quietly, “but what are you talking about?” 

“My eye,” he gestured to the electric blue and magical one, “can’t see you. What are you?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” his twin squeaked, making him sound like he’s asking a question rather than stating something. America desperately wanted to roll his eyes but didn’t because he was a good brother (despite what England and Canada say). 

“Dude,” he started loudly, drawing the psycho professor’s attention off of Canada’s, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but it’s not my brother’s fault that you’re weird-ass eye doesn’t work.” 

“And you,” the professor snarled instead of continuing whatever he started with Canada, “why the hell do you have a muggle weapon? And where is your wand?” 

All conversations stopped around them. Maybe they were being a bit louder than they needed to be, but whatever. 

“Mr. Jones,” McGonagall sounded strangled, “what is Professor Moody talking about?” _Do they really refer to each other as ‘professor’?_

America sighed because once he saw everyone eye in the room on him, he realized he couldn’t talk his way out of this one. He drew the New Revolver and tried to ignore Canada’s gasp and England and France’s groan. “This is the Nex Revolver,” he started. “It’s a standard MACUSA tool for all Auror Captains.” 

Okay, so that was a blatant lie. MACUSA would definitely never trust any of their low-level Auror Captains with a gun that can break through protective shield magic, and the one that America had in his hand was the only one in existence. There were two other prototypes but they and the plans were locked in MACUSA’s most protective vault. 

“And I was trained to go without the wand,” he said shortly, not wanting to get into any sort of lies about his magic because he definitely wasn’t telling this group of pretentious wizards about him being an obscurial. 

The teachers just let it go with suspicious glances and grunts, but he caught Canada’s glare which definitely said _we’re talking about this later._

“Well,” Dumbledore concluded the (not) lovely meet-up between the nations and the teachers, “I believe we should go to bed. If the heads of the ambassador’s houses would show them to their rooms.” 

He was lead out of the Great Hall by Professor McGonagall without another word being exchanged between him and the other nations. 

He didn’t ask about Prussia. America had a job to do - and that job didn’t include looking for previously thought dead friends. 

The hat said that he was lacking loyalty, and he wondered if Prussia would say the same thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man I'm so upset I couldn't get this out by July 1st. Well, happy belated Canada Day (and happy bday Matthew I love you my small child). Welp from here on out I just want to say that America is probably going to be the person that the GoF section is going to be told through so yeah. Another disclaimer: I did use dialogue from the GoF book and I do not own Harry Potter or Hetalia in any way shape or form. 
> 
> So a person on FF.net pointed out in the last chapter that I said Lee Fletcher instead of Lee Jordan (I fixed it tho so don't worry). My pitiful explanation is that I write these chapters usually the same day that I post them and that's usually at 1-2am aanndd I'm admittedly more of a Percy Jackson fangirl than an HP one so my tired ass brain said "Lee? Must be Lee Fletcher. I know no Lee Jordan" 
> 
> As always, thanks so much for the awesome comments, kudos, and bookmarks.


	12. Mad-Eye Moody is an Accurate Nickname

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America becomes acquainted with a certain Malfoy that quickly becomes a ferret.

It wasn’t even lunchtime yet, and America wanted to drop out of school. 

“Alfred,” England hissed. “You better not be sleeping right now.” 

He lifted his head up from the _Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles_ to glare at the older nation. America could hear Ms. Burbage (it’s technically supposed to be ‘professor’, but he already knew he wasn’t going to refer to any of the teachers as that) droning on about how fascinating muggles were as if they were a science experiment. It didn’t help that the information that she was spewing was either completely dated or just bizarrely inaccurate. 

As much as it was annoying, her monotone voice made it even more boring. 

To prevent himself from interrupting the class and simply teaching it himself, he decided it would be a better solution to sleep through it. He was trying to help the situation, yet England couldn’t appreciate it. Some people just didn’t understand the sacrifices he made. 

Sitting on the other side of him, France just gave England a sidelong glance. “Let the boy sleep, Arthur,” he said flippantly as he flicked his hair over his shoulder. “At least he’s quiet when he’s asleep.”

“Yeah,” America sleepily agreed before the second sentence caught up to him. “Hey, wait a minute—”

“He needs to at least act professional, frog,” England retorted back over America's head, ignoring the person that they were arguing about. America just placed his glasses in front of him and settled his head back onto the worst textbook America had even heard of. It was useless to get involved in their fights anyway.

“Not sure if you got the notice, but you aren’t in charge of what he does anymore.” Why do they always have to argue? He was finally getting some sleep in—he had to make up the lack of coffee somehow. 

“You made sure of that, didn’t you?” he could hear England snarl. He didn’t have to see his expression to tell that it was murderous. “How’d that work out for you?” 

“Better than you.” 

“You just like bragging about the one time you bested me.”

“Please,” France snorted. “You know I defeated you more than once.” 

“Name one other time.”

France coughed out something that sounded suspiciously like “Hundred Year War”. 

“Don’t be a git,” England spat, “you _know_ I kicked your arse the entire—”

“Boys?” America could hear Ms. Burbage interrupt her own monologue. He still didn’t pick his head up off the book, he had a chance at falling asleep… eventually. She apparently seemed to realize who she was talking to and cleared her throat to backtrack. “Gentlemen? Is there a problem?”

She was using her teacher voice—condescending and strained. He heard it enough with England, Germany, and all of his presidents to know it.

There was some rustling of clothing (probably England—he was insistent on wearing his house robes despite America, France, and Canada boycotting them) and a calm “No problem at all, Professor.” 

France laughed quietly behind him which (if America knew England as well as he thought he did) resulted in at least one rude gesture. 

The lesson continued, and apparently, it was something called “double Muggle Studies” instead of a regular period, so they were in class until lunch. After about twenty urges to correct the teacher who’s supposed to be an _expert_ on the subject, he fell asleep. 

————

He woke up in pain, and England was holding a book over his head. He could work out what happened from there. 

“What the hell?” he screeched. His head throbbed.

“You weren’t waking up,” England said simply with a smirk. “Also you deserved it.” 

“For what?!”

“Can I say existing?” his former guardian asked with an innocent smile.

“Oh, screw you,” America grumbled as he walked out of the classroom. England walked next to him with a laugh. “And me existing is technically your fault.” 

“It was either me or the frog. Honestly, you should be grateful.”

“Well,” America laughed as they tried to navigate the crowded hallways. France disappeared somewhere in the crowd, but America wasn’t too worried—he’d show up eventually. “There were others, you know.”

“Oh, really?” England asked distractedly as he looked around the hallway. 

“Spain was gunning for me for a while,” America casually reminded him. He laughed again when England’s attention snapped into him with a scowl. “So was the Netherlands. Pretty sure the Nordics were up and around for a while too.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” England said dismissively. “You wouldn’t have grown as fast as you did if any of them raised you.” He stopped and gave America an appraising look. “Maybe that wouldn’t have been too bad,” he grumbled under his breath.

“C’mon, Iggy,” America sang as he looped his arm over the older nation’s shoulder. “You know you love me.” 

“Don’t call me that!” He batted America’s arm away from him with a snarl. “And how many times do I have to tell you—” He interrupted himself with a growl when they saw the horde of students standing around the hall. “Don’t they have somewhere to be?” 

In the middle of the growing crowd of children, America could hear someone yelling - or was it more than one person? It was hard to tell. 

“Man, I don’t know,” America groaned. He pushed some small children away to make a path toward the Great Hall - food was the priority at that moment. “All I know is that I’m starving.” 

“You’re always hungry.” 

America opened his mouth to argue that _no, he wasn’t hungry_ all _the time, he was just a growing nation_ and all that when they got to the center of the crowd. In the middle of the hallway, stood Harry Potter and his two friends facing off against what looked like a bad hair job personified. He almost pitied the poor boy, but he should know that if he wanted to get his hair bleached or dyed, he should go to the hair salon. It was just common sense. 

“Imagine them not even getting his name right, Weasley. It’s almost as though he’s a complete nonentity, isn’t it?” the kid with the bleached hair taunted. Harry Potter’s redhead friend (who America assumed was ‘Weasley’) flushed completely and took an angry step forward. He couldn’t say anything before the other boy started to read off what looked like a newspaper with a dramatic flourish. 

_“Arnold Weasley, who was charged with possession of a flying car two years ago -”_ A flying car? America mentally filed that away for the R&D Department later. _“- was yesterday involved in a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers (“policemen”) over a number of highly aggressive dustbins.”_ America was questioning a lot. Aggressive dustbins? What does that even mean? _“Mr. Weasley appears to have rushed to the aid of ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody, the aged ex-auror who retired from the Ministry when no longer able to tell the difference between a handshake and attempted murder.”_

America could feel his jaw drop. _That’s_ who Dumbledore decided to hire to teach students? He’d be surprised if the year went by without an incident at this point - and by ‘incident’ he meant a student dying or being tortured. Who even knew with this guy.

_“Unsurprisingly, Mr. Weasley found -”_

“We should just go,” England grumbled next to him. “I’ve no time for this gossip.” 

“Dude, I wanna listen to what your people are reporting about.” 

England muttered under his breath but stayed at America’s side instead of rushing off into the Great Hall. 

_“- Mr. Weasley was forced to modify several memories before he could escape from the policemen, but refused to answer the_ Daily Prophet _questions -”_

“Who would?” America snorted, and ignored the deadly look that England threw his way. They both knew what the British Daily Prophet was famous for, and it wasn’t anything good. 

_“- in such an undignified and potentially embarrassing scene.”_ The bleached boy finished reading as he flipped around the newspaper for the surrounding crowd to see. “And there’s a picture, Weasley! A picture of your parents outside their house - if you can call it a house! Your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn’t she?” 

The boy next to Harry was shaking with fury, and every eye in the room (or hall, whatever) turned to look at him. America felt like he should intervene - it would be totally unheroic to stand by while a fourteen-year-old boy was being humiliated for what? His parents? Social standing? 

He took a step forward to intervene, but England swiftly grabbed onto the bag of his bomber jacket to drag him back. 

“Dude,” America hissed at the Englishman, “this is so uncool. We need to stop it.” 

“Don’t get involved,” England demanded with a fierce glare. “We can’t draw attention to ourselves this early, and don’t you know who the boy is?” 

He gave the Brit a puzzled glance. “A guy with a bad dye job?” 

England gave America an incredulous look. “No, you idiot,” he harshly whispered. “He’s a _Malfoy.”_

“Is that supposed to mean anything to me?” 

“Is that supposed to - _yes, it’s supposed to mean something!”_ he quietly snarled. In the corner of America’s eye, he could see that Harry Potter and the kid-Malfoy started to argue about something. “The Malfoys are one of the most influential families in all of magical Britain, and they’re all suspected Death Eaters!” 

“All of them?” America slowly asked and turned his attention back to Malfoy. His pale face was flushed, and he glared at Harry with a particular amount of disdain. He could see Harry begin to turn away with his friend in tow just as the pale boy drew his wand from behind them. The spell Malfoy cast went off with a _BANG!_

Ignoring the advice (order) of not drawing attention to himself, he ran directly in front of the spell’s path - which was right in front of Harry Potter. He swiftly drew the Nex Revolver in a way that was all too reminiscent of the Old West and pressed the golden button that activated the protego charm. 

The small, silvery shield burst from the muzzle of the gun just as the spell reached them. The spell collided against the shield in a shower of multicolored sparks, and the strength of it forced America back a couple of steps, not expecting it to pack as a punch. What kind of jinx did the kid just throw? 

Several people within the crowd screamed, though not entirely loud enough to block out England’s cursing from behind him. America turned to look at Harry Potter, who was standing behind him with a drastically paling face. He grasped at his wand within his pocket and glanced at the gun in America’s hand. 

“Thanks. I just - what - how -” Harry stuttered breathlessly. 

“It’s no problem,” America said cheerfully. “All in a day’s work for the hero!” 

Just as he said that another spell went off with a _BANG_ and the roar of “OH NO YOU DON’T, LADDIE!” 

America could see Harry’s stunned gaze turn from him to something behind him. He spun around to see none other than Mad-Eye Moody pointing a wand at a pure white ferret that just happened to be where Malfoy was previously standing. 

America clenched his jaw in frustration. Honestly, what had Dumbledore been thinking when he hired this lunatic? 

Moody limped forward as a terrified silence fell over the hall. “We,” he growled, his voice low and gravelly, “are going to talk about that gun of yours.” America just rolled his eyes. The wizard apparently was never going to stop being the dramatic motherfucker everyone was introduced to last night. The teacher (even though he should never have been hired as a teacher in the first place) turned to Harry behind him. “Did he get you?” 

America huffed in irritation. Did Moody not just see him blocking the spell? 

“No,” Harry answered, “Alfred blocked it.” 

“LEAVE IT!” Moody suddenly shouted, his magical eye pointed into the back of his head. 

“I - what?” Harry asked, completely bewildered. 

“Not you - him!” He jerked his thumb over to a burly Slytherin boy who was just about to pick up the ferret on the floor. Apparently, that eye could see through the back of his head, and even America had to admit that that was pretty cool. 

Moody began to limp towards the Slytherin boy and the ferret, and America followed after a brief hesitation - someone had to make sure he didn’t throw any curses (and no, not the verbal ones). The dude turned Malfoy into a ferret and that definitely wasn’t okay... even if the boy was being an asshole. The ferret gave a pitiful squeak of fear and started running off down another hallway. 

“I don’t think so!” Moody roared and pointed his wand at the running animal. The ferret flew ten feet into the air, fell with a smack on the floor, and then bounced upward again. America watched the display in disbelief - he would be surprised if the ferret hadn’t broken any bones from that fall. 

“I don’t like people who attack when their opponent’s back’s turned,” the teacher growled at the ferret who was being bounced up and down off the marble floor. That snapped America out of his stunned disbelief.

He flicked his fingers to focus on his magic and forced his control over the air around them. As the ferret was bounced into the air again, the air shot across the hall to catch it and bring it over to America. After a brief hesitation - he did _not_ want to hold that thing - he grabbed the squirming animal out of the air. 

“That’s really hypocritical, isn’t it?” he could hear England drawl off to his side. “Since you transfigured him into an animal from behind his back and all.” 

“Yeah, dude,” he agreed. Moody’s magical eye spun over to look directly at him. “Plus, you probably gave this guy about ten different broken bones from slamming him against the floor.” 

“I was teaching him a lesson,” came the snarled response. England walked up next to America and raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“I guess I shall need to pray for those in your classes then.” 

America mentally cheered and allowed for a smug smile to grow across his face, but the moment was ruined when the Malfoy ferret squirmed around and scratched his forearm. He hissed out a curse and seriously debated dropping the little asshole. Before Moody could say anything, McGonagall ran up. 

“What,” she began in a deadly calm voice, “is going on here?” 

“Moody turned a kid into a ferret,” America helpfully supplied. “And then he bounced him against the floor a lot.” With every word, McGonagall’s face became even paler. 

“So the ferret that you’re holding is a _student?”_

“Yep.” 

“Professor Moody!” she shrieked as she pulled out her wand. With a small snap, the Malfoy kid from earlier appeared in his arms. The kid sneered at him and immediately pushed himself out of America’s loose hold. He crumpled to the ground with a small whimper of pain. He looked like he was trying to push himself off the floor, but his arm was twisted at an extremely unnatural angle. The boy’s face was tracked with tears and his already pale face grew even paler in pain. 

Even if he scratched up his arm, the pitiful display made America feel a bit bad for the boy. 

“Dude, are you okay?” he asked the boy quietly as he crouched down next to him. He offered his hand to help him up, but Malfoy either was too proud to take it or just couldn’t move his arms.

“Do I look okay?” Malfoy hissed, but the mask of annoyance was immediately broken by his choked sob as he shifted to look up at America. 

“Yeah, you’re definitely not alright.” 

“Thank you for that astute observation, Alfred,” England quipped from beside him. Looked at the boy in front of them with a frustrated expression as if he couldn’t decide if he should be concerned or not. “As always.” 

England studied the Malfoy in front of him and sighed. Wordlessly, he attempted to sit the pale boy up and was immediately sworn at. Malfoy moved away from the older nation and continued to refuse any help. 

England scowled in irritation and impatience and drew his wand. America didn’t notice how Malfoy flinched at the motion, but England simply placed a small spell to get him off the ground. _Levitation,_ something in the back of his mind whispered. 

At the same time, McGonagall was reprimanding Moody. “We _never_ use transfiguration as a punishment! Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?!” 

“He might’ve mentioned it, yeah,” Moody grumbled with an unconcerned scratch of his chin. “But I thought a good sharp shock -”

“We give detentions, Moody! Or speak to the offender’s Head of House!” 

“I’ll do that then,” Moody said, staring directly at Malfoy with an extreme amount of dislike. America, at some level, took note of that but was way too busy dealing with the boy in front of him. 

Malfoy, however, seemed to take whatever Moody said as a personal slight. Not nearly as concerned with his injuries as America and England are, he just muttered something about his father seeing about this. Which was an incredibly stupid thing to do because Moody immediately moved to go after him _again._

“Oh, yeah?” the apparent ex-auror limped toward them. The dull _clunk_ echoing around the shocked and terrified hall. He continued to move toward the levitated boy, and everyone else continued to become more on edge. 

America glanced at McGonagall and saw that she made absolutely no move to protect the obviously injured student from the obviously unhinged man moving toward him. Seeing that no one was going to do anything, America swiftly stood up and stood between Malfoy and Moody. 

“Well, I know your father of old, boy… You tell him Moody’s keeping a close eye on his son,” he continued. The teacher continued to walk forward despite America standing in his way. “You tell him for me… Now, your Head of House’ll be Snape, will it?” 

“Yes,” Malfoy sneered from his position only inches from the floor. America didn’t know where this kid’s pride came from, but it could rival the largest egos that he had ever met - and he has to deal with politicians almost daily. 

“Another old friend,” Moody growled and came way too close for America’s liking. 

“Hey,” America began, and Moody’s magical eye snapped over to him. “You need to back up.” 

“I need to present him to his Head of House,” Moody said angrily. “Just as McGonagall said.” 

“He’s obviously hurt! You can’t just take him wherever without seeing a doctor or something!” 

Moody attempted to walk around him to get to Malfoy, but America just sidestepped to block him. He was going to have to try harder than that to get to him. Moody let out an animalistic growl that made the surrounding students whimper in fear. 

“Mr. Jones,” McGonagall’s voice echoed across the hall. “Please allow Professor Moody to escort Mr. Malfoy to the hospital wing.” 

America’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t be serious. She wanted to leave the student with the _same person_ who hurt him? 

“What?!” he ground out.

“Please, Mr. Jones,” McGonagall tried to anxiously appease him. “It isn’t your responsibility to look after students.” 

“You can’t be serious! You’re just going to let this kid go with the same person who hurt him?!” His voice rose even more with his frustration. 

“Professor Dumbledore trusts him -” 

“Dumbledore is clearly wrong with this,” America spitefully hissed. “Look at him! You can’t leave him with that lunatic just because the dude trusts him!” 

He could pinpoint the time where her face closed and her usual stern expression turned harsh. Alright, so maybe he shouldn’t have disagreed with Dumbledore in a castle that clearly worships him, that was his bad.

Why were his thoughts so sarcastic nowadays? 

“Mr. Jones,” she took a deep breath as if to steady herself, “Hogwarts has welcomed you here to _observe._ You are _not_ to openly renounce or voice your opinions on this school’s administration.” Her voice was clipped and cold, nothing at all like the warm professor of Gryffindor that he talked to yesterday. 

America opened his mouth to argue, but England pulled him back by his jacket. He shot him a glare that said _shut your damn mouth._

“Of course, Professor McGonagall,” England tried to be diplomatic. Maybe he could feel the seething anger or the pure disbelief of the situation because he continued. “However, I believe that we all would feel a bit better if you could escort Mr. Malfoy to the hospital wing yourself.” 

The frigidness in the teacher’s expression thawed slightly as England spoke. “I believe that it is slightly unnecessary,” she began sternly, “but I will bring Mr. Malfoy to the hospital wing to appease the both of you.” 

England gave her a small smile that America could tell was definitely fake, but McGonagall relaxed anyways. “Thank you.” He turned to America and his expression shifted into something murderous. He grabbed his arm and pulled him all the way to the Great Hall, ignoring the whispers and stares as he stormed over to where Canada and France were sitting at the Ravenclaw table. 

England threw America onto the bench next to his brother and snarled, “You mind telling me what the fuck that was about?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I'm sorry for being gone for such a long time, but my excuse was that I was on vacation. I also had a bit of writer's block so that didn't really help. Have I mentioned how much I can't write Harry Potter characters? Because I honest to god suck at them. With that, I'm really sorry is McGonagall is out of character in this. Also with my experience of writing in the Hogwarts/school setting, I can confidently say that I don't like it lmao. 
> 
> Another thing: I am aware that Durmsturang is not in Russia (well technically, the entire location of it are mainly theories, but the main consensus is in the Nordic zone), but keep in mind this is in America's POV. I was going to explain how his mind immediately jumped to Russia coming, but this chapter was getting too long so the explanation will be in the next chapter (sorry about that). Anyways, I think I've said this before, but a lot of the universe in this fic is probably manipulated to a certain degree. Like the sports dueling and magical hockey aren't real, but I kinda just wanted to differentiate the different countries because QuodPot - the real US magical sport - was really similar to Quidditch (with more explosives). I also exaggerated the international situation between different countries (but not that much because honestly they don't even think to ask for foreign help) and I know that the Rappaport's Law (the law that puts in place the segregation between no-majs and American wizards/witches) was repealed in 1965 but it's not in this fic because plot reasons. But thank you so much to the people who took the time to make sure I was up to date on the facts!!
> 
> Damn sorry for this section being so long. Anyways, thank everyone so much for placing down a kudos, comment, or bookmark - you guys are so awesome.


	13. First Fall Down a Flight of Stairs and then We'll Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course, it wouldn't be a FACE family adventure without problems.

America’s back slammed into the table behind him, making dishes clatter behind him, causing even more noise and drawing even more attention to them. France and Canada looked at them - Canada in shock while France just rolled his eyes. 

He could hear muttering surrounding him, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw students blatantly staring. America mentally groaned. England acted like he didn’t want the younger nation to make a scene, so what does he do? Throw him into a seat and start yelling. 

Always the best way to avoid making a scene. 

“Watch your language, Iggy,” he drawled. “If you forgot, there’s children around.” He leaned back in his seat and looked calmly up at the older nation. Hopefully, he got the hint that they were in  _ public  _ and shouldn’t be talking about anything - especially that little encounter with Moody that happened less than five minutes ago. 

Canada grumbled something under his breath. It sounded suspiciously like ‘hypocrite’, but America ignored it. 

“I’m aware, Alfred,” England seethed. America sighed - whenever he tried to be subtle, it completely went over their heads.  _ Well,  _ a traitorous voice whispered,  _ Russia always seemed to pick up what you were talking about. _ He crushed that voice before it could say anything more. 

He had no time to think about Russia - not now, at least. (He still had to figure out how to keep the bastard from coming  _ here  _ during his investigation after all.) 

“Why are you so mad at Ameri -” __ France choked on his words. “Alfred. Why are you so mad at  _ Alfred,  _ Arthur?” America rolled his eyes. Nice going, France. 

“Because,” England growled, “he -” 

America decided that what he was saying was never going to hit him, so he did the only reasonable thing… which was to stomp on England’s foot to prevent him from saying anything in front of so many people listening.

He  _ maybe  _ should have watched his strength, but it didn’t matter too much, did it? 

England didn’t seem to have anything to say in response. He merely grabbed his foot, forcing him to jump up and down as he swore the entire time. The surrounding students’ ears began to turn red as England continued his colorful language (very loudly, if he may add). He briefly wondered how he never picked up swearing when he was a colony - half of England’s dictionary are either curse words or insults. If you were lucky, a combination of both (America and France were both subjected to those almost daily). 

Okay, so maybe watching his strength mattered a teeny bit. 

France laughed and taunted the already very pissed off England as Canada quietly placed his head on the table in defeat. That got them both the swears and the insults - France just seemed to take that as another part of the entertainment. 

Seeing as that could go on for a  _ very  _ long time, America swiftly stood up from his seat and grabbed England’s arm. He ignored the indignant squawking from the seething nation (who dared to claim that he was more ‘mature’) and told France and Canada, “I guess something happened to the dude’s foot. I’m going to take him to the hospital wing.” He said it a bit  _ too  _ loudly - hopefully to give the other spectators the hint to back off. Or at the very least, assure them that nothing weird was going on at all. 

No siree, just four very mature diplomats doing their jobs.

France and Canada gave him blank stares.  _ For the love of God -  _ did he have to spell everything out for them? 

This whole thing was so weird - usually, it was them telling him how stupid he was and how he can’t do his job correctly.  _ Oh, how the tables have turned.  _ It gave him a rush of vindictive satisfaction. 

“It would be nice,” he cleared his throat and gave the pair a pointed look, “if you could  _ come with us.”  _ He made sure to enunciate the words very slowly because he wasn’t sure if they would understand it otherwise. Maybe he could get a large sign that said  _ ‘we need to talk in private and not in front of a bunch of kids’ _ , but he figured that would throw the last shred of subtlety they had out the window. 

America prayed to any kind of god there was that his auror team wasn’t going to be like this. He hated being the responsible one all the time. 

That sent the pair stumbling to their feet.  _ “Oui,  _ of course,” France said smoothly. “Have to make sure poor, poor Arthur is alright.” Laughter was clear in his voice, leading England to smoothly flip him off while growling in America’s ear about something (most likely complaints, but it wasn’t like he was listening). 

Canada just gave a small sigh. “Alright, let’s go,” he said softly. America could barely hear him over the stupid Brit next to him. Damn him, couldn’t England see that he was trying to get them all out of this situation? 

They all walked (well, England was more-or-less dragged) out of the Great Hall with wide-eyed stares following them out of the door. 

_ That was a great start.  _

“Bloody hell, Jones,” England griped. “What in the everliving fuck did you do to my foot?” 

America didn’t even spare him a glance as he dragged the group to his private room in Gryffindor tower. Honestly, Dumbledore was an asshole when he wouldn’t let them stay somewhere in Hogsmeade - it made it impossible to do anything remotely productive. (And by ‘productive’ he meant talking about very classified secrets.) Even though it wasn’t explicitly stated, it was obvious that they were expected to stay at the castle at all times. 

“Alfred F. Jones!” England barked beside him. “Where are we going?” 

America cautiously glanced around the hallways, checking to see if they had any eavesdroppers. “We’re going to my room in Gryffindor tower.” 

“What?!” 

“My room,” he drawled slowly. “In Gryffindor tower.” 

England scowled, furrowing his bushy eyebrows together in frustration (and perhaps a little bit of pain, even though America knows he would never admit it). “I heard that, you twat! What about my foot?”

“You’ll heal,” was his casual response. Maybe he shouldn’t have said it like that, but he’d been pissing England off for more than two hundred years. It was practically instinctual at that point. 

“I’ll heal?!” he screeched. “It hurts to walk, you arse!” 

“Well, in that case.” In one swift moment, America turned around and picked England up bridal style. America ignored France’s very loud (and somehow  _ suggestive)  _ laughter. England, of course, did no such thing. 

“Shut it, frog!” 

“I would love for you to make me,  _ cher,  _ but it seems you’re busy with Alfred at the moment.” America could hear Canada laugh from behind them, the traitorous bastard. England’s face flushed bright red - the exact same shade America saw before he decked his brother less than a week ago. 

England didn’t look like he was going to do anything but swear and inappropriately gesture at France, but America tightened his hold on him anyway. No need to  _ actually  _ go to the hospital wing.

America climbed up the stairs with ease with England cursing Scotland for adding moving staircases - America silently agreed with the sentiment. Moving staircases just seemed pointless, but it made for a cool aesthetic, so who was he to judge? 

And then there was the trick step. 

He didn’t even  _ know  _ there was a trick step until he accidentally stepped on it and his entire leg fell through. In his surprise, he dropped England, and he tumbled down the staircase before he knocked into France (though America suspected  _ that _ was intentional). England bowled down France and sent them both down the steep staircase. 

America could hear the faint screams and curses (and at that point, he wasn’t sure if it was swearing or actual spellwork going on) continue as they landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. England continued to curse America, France, and Scotland in the same breath while France just began to complain about his ruined hair. 

America, of course, was still stuck in that trick step. 

Canada had appeared by his side at some point during the chaos to try to get him out, but now he just stood next to America and looked around. He began to laugh - it was a small giggle at first, but then it grew to be something louder. It was the kind of laugh that Canada reserved for just his family, and America could say that he hated it. It grated on his nerves a bit too much. 

Canada was so enthralled in enjoying the scene around him that he completely ignored his helpless brother that was stuck in a stupid, useless trick step. Honestly, what kind of maniac even puts something like that in a castle for children? On  _ moving staircases _ no less.

Maybe England was right. Maybe Scotland is a special kind of crazy that would just laugh as the world burned. Of course, after he gained independence, England quickly lumped America into the category that he put Scotland and Ireland and France in.

And America would never put a trick step on a staircase, so England must’ve gotten something wrong.

(Well, it would be amazing if he could see Russia and all those other nations and bosses and people that pissed him off stuck in a trick step… so maybe he could see the appeal.)

Canada grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the hole he was stuck in, not without the usual tease about his weight. He’d let it slight for now - America still needed to get out of the whole and all before the staircase started moving again - but he’ll definitely get his brother back later. 

“Bro,” America grunted as Canada began to pull on his arm. It felt like his brother was ripping it off. “This sucks.”

“Really?” he stopped pulling on America’s arm to make sure he saw his shit-eating grin. “I think this is amazing.” 

Shouting broke out behind them, followed by the sounds of something that you would hear in a fistfight - punching, grunting, cursing, the whole thing. America gave Canada a look to shut up before he could say anything, but the northern brother just continued to give him that stupid grin. The grin that was rapidly transforming into a smirk, and the fight continued on behind them, and America was still stuck in the trick step. 

Just… why. 

“Dude,” he huffed, “c’mon. Get me out.” 

“Hold on,” Canada said. He took a step back to survey the chaos as if to commit to memory. Knowing his brother, he probably was. “Alright. Give me a second.” 

That ‘second’ turned into five minutes of whispered swearing and continuous pulling on his arm while, in the background, there were the sounds of a fight between England and France. It seemed to alternate between a fistfight and a yelling match every ten seconds. France eventually resorted to yelling out insults in French (which was something that only seemed to happen around England - usually when he argued with someone, he wanted them to understand his insults). 

Finally, America was wrenched free of the hole he had fallen into and he could stand on his own two feet again. 

“Unbelievable,” he glared down at the trick step. “I’m going to kill Scotland.” 

“Only if Arthur doesn’t kill him first,” Canada flippantly responded without looking at him. He was still staring down at the two older nations yelling and punching the ever-living shit out of each other. “Think we should stop them?” 

America considered the question. On one hand, they actually had things to do; on the other hand, it was entertaining as hell. “Dude, I don’t know.” He let out a laugh as France tackled England to the concrete floor. “It’s funny as hell though.” 

“You would think it would get boring after seeing it our entire lives.” 

England retaliated by punching French in the nose, snapping it with a resounding  _ snap.  _ “Well,” America mused, “it’s probably more fun when they aren’t threatening war on each other.” 

Canada snorted. “That’s probably it.” 

France and England continued to try to get the upper hand over the other and America and Canada just watched on the staircase. It gave America deja vu, and it snapped him back to a time where their fights were more lethal, Canada was more comfortable speaking French, he still thought England hung the sun, and where they were still a family. 

He blinked and the illusion shattered. 

America cleared his throat and glanced around to check for people turning the corner (and  _ not  _ to wait for his eyes to stop burning and for him to swallow the lump that developed in his throat). “We should probably go up to my room - who knows when lunch is over.” 

“You didn’t memorize your schedule?” Canada gave him an amused look that boarded on exasperated. 

America just gave his brother the same look in response. “Why should I? It’s a waste of energy.” 

Canada gave a noncommittal hum as he began to go down the stairs to break up their old caretakers’ fight. America wondered what it was like in the EU - and how many fights had to be broken up at each meeting. It’s a meeting between old European nations who could hold grudges like no other, so if nothing else, it would be at least entertaining (for anyone not in said meeting). 

America bounded after his brother and clapped his hands together to get their attention. It didn’t work of course. “Okay, ladies,” he said loudly, “you’re both pretty - break it up, please.” That comment gave him sharp looks from the older nations.

“Please,” France scoffed, “I’m much prettier than the savage rosbif.” 

England snarled at his old rival as a reflex before his expression morphed into something smug - which was never good during a fight that America was helping resolve. “I think I’m alright with that. Wouldn’t want anyone to confuse me for a woman, of course.” 

France growled out something in French that America couldn’t catch. Canada, who was much closer to the nation, quickly covered his mouth to hide a smile. 

“Okay,” America sighed as England and France began glaring at each other again. England was sporting a split lip and probably a lot of bruises while France had a bloody, crooked nose and a black eye. “Dudes, we actually need to get stuff done, so…” He hated being the responsible one. 

England apparently shared the same sentiment. “I hate it when you’re the responsible one,” he grumbled. “Let’s go talk about whatever you want to talk about.” He began to climb up the stairs with a noticeable limp, and judging by France’s smirk, it had nothing to do with what America did to his foot. 

“Do you think  _ they’ll  _ ever get bored of fighting each other?” Canada muttered next to him. America considered his brother's question - it seemed like he was doing that a lot now, now that he had nothing else to really do. 

America compared their rivalry to his and Russia’s, something that was born out of hurt and fear, and realized how  _ friendly  _ England and France were in comparison - nowadays, at least. 

They didn’t almost destroy the world, after all. 

America, despite having loved both England and France as brothers throughout his life, never really knew what their relationship was like before he came into existence. He wondered if they were anything like him and Russia before -  _ no.  _ He banished that thought to the back of his mind. 

Russia should not get that much time in his head. 

“I don’t know,” America answered honestly. The two brothers spent the rest of the trip back to America’s room in Gryffindor tower in contemplative silence, each caught up in their own memories. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, all I can say is that writer's block is a bitch. I'm currently in that weird phase where I dedicate myself to a story and then suddenly my mind gives me a bazillion different ideas for different stories. Oh well. 
> 
> Sorry for the delay on this chapter, and I should be back to updating more frequently. Anyways, thanks to all that leave a comment, kudos, and/or a bookmark! You guys are awesome


	14. The Anticlimactic Meeting in Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang needs to figure out how to navigate this freaking castle.

They made it to the Gryffindor common room without any more problems. Or rather, any  _ major _ problems. 

America wasn’t entirely sure why the stairs of Hogwarts decided to make their lives living hell - it could have been several things. Two reasons came to mind: one, Scotland spelled the stairs to act like this around them (America didn’t know if that was possible, but it was probably more likely than not). Two, the castle was sentient and decided to fuck with them. 

America hoped it wasn’t the second one. He had ghosts and magic and everything else to worry about -  _ he did not need a sentient castle.  _

But anyway, after they had all recovered from the chaos caused by the trick step, the stairs began to move. Because of course they did - why wouldn’t they? They moved, and because America only knew one way to the Gryffindor tower, they got ridiculously lost.

Let’s just say that England was not pleased. 

They walked aimlessly around the deserted hallways (the crowds just vanished after lunchtime - America knew it was because wizards liked their lunch break, but damn if that wasn’t creepy) to find a painting that was ‘willing’ to lead them to where they wanted to go. Because apparently, it was their ‘choice’.

America seriously wondered what the point of keeping them around was. It seemed like an unnecessary headache. 

The whole time they walked around, England muttered mutinously under his breath. America caught “fucking frog” (make of that what you will), “damn Scotland”, and a disturbingly large number of words relating to murder.

Just a regular day hanging around the old nation. America was pretty much used to it, but murder  _ would  _ make his job a bit more complicated than necessary. Hopefully, it didn’t come to that. 

Navigating the enormous castle was becoming something along the lines of a major priority. But despite everything, they finally made it to Gryffindor tower. It was a struggle, truly. 

America’s room wasn’t anything special. It was a small twin bed tucked into the corner of the room with a nice desk and trunk on the opposite wall. The color red accentuated anything and everything. It was all in different shades, of course, but the sheer amount of  _ red  _ made the interior design something reminiscent of hell. 

Or maybe that’s just him being cynical. Maybe it’s supposed to be warm and comforting - but even so, it wouldn’t hurt to add more colors to the mix. 

If France’s disgusted sniff and exaggerated eye roll were anything to go by, he agreed with America’s silent complaints. But America didn’t ever say anything about stuff like that - it would’ve been totally unheroic if he complained about something as pointless as the color scheme. 

France and England never seemed to have a problem with it though. 

“Whoever decided on this color needs to be hanged,” England huffed with an annoyed scowl. 

“Pretty sure they’re long dead, dude,” America easily responded with a laugh. 

England scowled at him, and without any other comments, they began the impromptu “meeting”. A meeting that was only between their weird family, so it could either go well enough or terribly wrong. Considering England and France got their daily beating-the-shit-out-of-each-other quota out of the way, America hoped for the meeting not to end in disaster. 

They mutually agreed that causing a scene wouldn’t do them any good in the long run. And what England meant by not causing a scene was not intervening with any fights - England stared directly at him when he said that, which America thought was a bit unfair.

_ Whatever _ he mentally shrugged it off.  _ I make my own decisions! England doesn’t own me!  _

Then the conversation turned toward the Nex Revolver which he hoped they would ignore. 

“So,” Canada said casually, “you bring a gun to a school full of children.” America rolled his eyes at the implication. 

“You guys carry wands that could kill anyone with two words. How is this any different?” 

“Well, speaking of that,” France jumped in, “I must admit that I’m curious as to what you mean when you say you cannot do magic,  _ mon ami.”  _

This conversation again? How many times was he going to have to explain his situation on this mission? He gave a clipped and short explanation to Canada and France - they probably deserved more information, but he didn’t particularly feel like sharing. “Burned at the stake. Became an obscurial. Now I control the air around me.”

“Interesting,” France said as he studied America. He always hated it when people studied him like that - calculating how useful he could be or if he would be a hindrance. You would think that he had gotten used to it after two-hundred years of politics, but it still grated on his nerves like nothing else. (America knew how hypocritical it was for him to say that, but he gave up caring a long time ago.)

Canada stayed suspiciously silent, but America knew that once they were alone he was going to get grilled for details. He cleared his throat and took the revolver out of its holster. 

“This is the Nex Revolver,” he proclaimed to the three other nations. “Brand new MACUSA tech and it can break through any shielding charm, and it also makes its own shielding charm!” He demonstrated by pressing that small button on the side of it and they all watched as the small shield burst from the gun’s muzzle. 

“It can break through any shielding charm?” England demanded. “What does that mean? How does that work?” 

“Well it’s a bit complicated,” America began with a smirk, “and MACUSA secret. ‘m not authorized to tell you about it.” His smile widened at England’s glare. He was pretty sure Dr. Brown and President Romero would skin him alive if he told other nations about how to build something that can break through something that was once believed to be almost impenetrable. Especially after years of research and the effort to make sure that no foreign intelligence can get a hold of it.

France gives the gun in his hand a distrustful look. “Must you carry that around everywhere?” 

“Yeah, dude. If someone decided to attack me with magic here I would pretty much be useless.” Alright, that was a lie, but they didn’t need to know that. It would be somewhat hard to explain how he could possibly take down a wizard using no-maj fighting styles, and America didn’t really want to get into that at the moment. It was better to keep some of your secrets to yourself on these kinds of missions anyways - who knew who could be listening. 

It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you and all that. 

“That,” Canada snorted, “is something I have a hard time believing.” 

“Well, it’s true.” America shrugged with an eye roll. 

“In any case,” England scowled at him (but when wasn’t he?), “you need to keep that thing out of sight. And for the love of God, America,  _ do not cause a scene.” _

America held his hands up in mock surrender. “Who? Me?” He gave his former caretaker an innocent smile, but with France and Canada’s soft chuckles in the background, it wasn’t very believable. 

England gave him a sharp glare. “Yes, you!” he snapped. “And I need to say this again:  _ don’t cause a scene.”  _

America rolled his eyes. England was going a bit overboard with the don’t-you-dare-cause-a-scene bit. Besides, it wasn’t like he was the one that yelled out obscenities in the Great Hall. A bit hypocritical, if anyone asked him. “Aye, aye, Captain.” It was completely sarcastic, but England seemed reassured either way. 

An awkward silence fell over the room. America didn’t really know what else to say, but after all the trouble it took to get to this place, it would be stupid to leave after five minutes. He began to fiddle with the revolver in his hands to entertain himself before he saw something odd. 

They made six bullets for the Nex Revolver, and he (stupidly, now that he looked back on it) used one back at Research and Development labs in New York. But, he noticed as he studied the gun, there were still six bullets in it. 

“What the…” he muttered to himself. He was pretty sure Dr. Brown didn’t make any more bullets when he was gone (the Prez insisted that the project was already ‘too expensive’), so why… 

He took a bullet out of the cylinder in curiosity. It was goblin silver, and its entire surface was etched in small runes - exactly like the designs he went over with Brown. Suddenly, just as he was about to look away, an unknown symbol caught his eye. 

“Is there a problem?” England asked, apparently just now noticing him fiddling with the revolver. 

“Maybe…” America mused to himself as he held the bullet closer to his face to see what the small inscription was. It wasn’t any of the ones he was forced to research, so what was it? Did Brown add on something when he was busy doing other things? 

Many different questions and ideas whirled around America’s head at a dangerous speed. He ignored whatever conversation that the other three were having - Canada could fill him in on it later if it was important, anyways. The small unknown symbol looked like an X that had a lightning-shaped figure layered on top of it with a circle around it. It was odd, and it was even odder that Dr. Brown wouldn’t tell him about it before he left.

He absentmindedly fiddled with the silver bullet as he drew his gaze over to England and France.  _ England would probably know what the rune was,  _ he considered to himself.  _ But would that give him the ability to recreate it?  _

He pondered the question to himself for a little bit before deciding that no, England wouldn’t be able to recreate this kind of thing off of one rune. Hopefully. Probably. 

“Yo, Arthur!” he held up the bullet for his former caretaker to see. “You know about runes and stuff, right?” 

England raised his eyebrows and answered “of course” with a suspicious glance toward the gun he was holding. America gave him a wide smile and went over to his desk to draw out the rune. Probably wouldn’t be a great idea to just let him look at the whole bullet if he was trying to keep it a secret. 

He drew it out and handed it over to the Brit. “What’d you think this is?” 

The three other nations gave him an odd look. “Shouldn’t  _ you _ know what it is, Al?” Canada asked, raising his eyebrows to show his obvious skepticism. 

“Well, yeah,” America said with a shrug, “but I don’t, and I want to know what it is. So, Iggy, you know it?” 

“Not my name,” the older nation snapped in response. Instead of starting a fight (which America would have loved to do, but he was somewhat on the clock - lunchtime doesn’t last forever), America shoved the paper in England’s face. “Alright!” England grabbed the paper out of the younger’s hand to begin studying it. 

“Don’t know why you couldn’t ask me,” France sighed. “God knows I could be more useful than the rosbif.” 

“Shut your trap,” was the steady response from England. But he didn’t have the usual venom in his voice, seeing as he was too enthralled in deciphering the puzzle that America gave him. America lived to serve. (Though who he serves is up for debate a lot of the time.) 

France made a show of peering over his former rival’s shoulder to see what the mysterious symbol was. Canada, however, didn’t move to see what had interested both England and France. In fact, Canada was looking at him with an expression that was  _ almost  _ a glare, but he appeared too confused to pull it off. 

“What’s up, bro?” 

“What’s up?” Canada scoffed. “You bring a magical gun with an unknown rune on the bullets to a school full of  _ children.”  _

“You know, it sounds bad when you say it like that, but -”

“There is no but!” Canada interrupted.  _ “Children,  _ Alfred!” 

“All of you carry around something that can be a bomb with only two words!” America had to raise his voice so his brother wouldn’t interrupt him again. “Reducto - or some stupid word like that, right?” 

“That’s different -”

“Is it?” he dared to ask. France and England both looked up from the paper, and they both looked like they wanted to interject - to argue for or against America, he wasn’t entirely sure. “Because from an outsider’s point of view -” he could see his twin open his mouth to object “- don’t argue that I’m not an outsider in this, please.” America could almost hear Canada’s jaw click together. “From what I can see, all of you in this school carry around weapons that can be used to torture or control or kill a person with a word. So  _ yes -  _ I do have to use this because some wind isn’t going to help against a wizard hell-bent on killing me.” 

“Children cannot perform those kinds of spells!” his brother yelled back. Or  _ almost  _ yelled back because it was too quiet to be classified completely as a yell. Everything was like that with his brother - just a bit too soft, a bit too kind, just a bit too much or little of  _ something.  _ “They would need training to perform those spells. With that gun, anyone could press the trigger.” 

“Good thing I’m not letting anyone else take this, then.” 

Canada seemed to somehow disagree with that statement more than anything else he had said in a while. And America had said a lot of bullshit in the past several decades. 

England awkwardly cleared his throat to get both of their attention. The two older nations looked extremely uncomfortable, they always did when the two fought. Which America thought was rather unfair considering the amount of times the two brothers had witnessed a fight between the pair. 

“Well, if you’re done with your spat,” England primly began, “I think I figured it out.” 

“You  _ think _ ,” France sniffed. “Did your fairy friends tell you the answer to this as well?” 

England just gave the other European a dubious side glance. “You aren’t in the position to question what I think because  _ clearly,  _ you have no idea what you’re looking at.” 

France huffed and muttered something along the lines of ‘being friends with Norway gives an unfair advantage’. England scoffed at him and looked over at America. “I would  _ assume  _ that it’s a variation of the Revenio charm.”

“And that means…?” America trailed off as he slipped the bullet back into the cylinder. 

“It means ‘return’ or something along those lines.”

France peered over at the paper again and gave a small “ohhhh” to show that he understood how England got to that conclusion. It would have been nice if he shared with the class since America had no idea what England was talking about. 

Was this karma for ignoring all of England’s lectures as a colony? 

It had to be. There was no way it wasn’t. “It’s somewhat obvious,” England continued. There was absolutely  _ no way _ this wasn’t retribution for him slacking off. No fucking way. “Even the frog figured it out eventually.” 

Canada didn’t say anything, and it was impossible to tell if he was agreeing or was too timid to speak up - his brother had somehow developed an annoyingly good poker face (then again, didn’t they all?). America decided enough was enough and that he needed to know what the heck they were talking about. 

“Okay,” he put his hands up in a T (for ‘timeout’), “hold up. How, __ exactly, did you figure that out?” 

England rolled him to demonstrate his contempt for America’s ignorance  _ (love you too, bro).  _ “The X symbol could be interpreted as the Viking rune  _ Gebo  _ which is sometimes translated to mean ‘partnership’. Then the lightning shape, if you would follow the Viking pattern, would be _S_ _ owelu  _ which is translated to ‘wholeness’. The circle is, obviously, meant to symbolize a cycle of something.” 

Well, that wasn’t helpful. 

“Well, alright, Professor,” he may sure to layer ‘professor’ with an extreme amount of sarcasm, “one - what does that even mean? And two - why do you even know Viking runes?” 

“For your second question, as the frog so helpfully pointed out, I  _ am _ friends with Norway, and I picked up a few things.” 

England decided to ignore France’s “you have friends?”, which was probably the best decision for all of them. No need to get blood on the already red everything, that would just be excessive. 

“And for your first question, it shouldn’t be that hard to comprehend. The ‘partnership’ is between the bullet and the gun, the ‘wholeness’ is having the bullet in the gun, the cycle would be the bullet being removed and returned to the gun.” He listed this off as if it were obvious, which it definitely  _ was not. _ “To dumb it down to your level, it would mean that the bullet returns to the gun after a certain amount of time.”

“How long does that take then?” 

“We have no way of knowing,” England shrugged, “we’d have to test it.” 

“Huh,” America grunted. “I still have no idea how you figured that out in like - what? A minute?” 

England’s atypical sour expression morphed into something smug. France looked a little miffed next to him. Probably about how England was able to figure it out so quickly, but America could honestly care less. 

Canada made a show of checking his watch. “Lunch is about to end - we should probably head to our next class.” 

America rolled his eyes. “I hate school,” he whined. Canada laughed softly next to him, no doubt remembering all of the complaining he had to listen to when they had the same tutors. All of them filed out of the red room. 

(America was, quite frankly, disappointed in himself. They were all acting as spies in a literal  _ red room  _ and he had not made a single Marvel reference. He had never felt so ashamed.)

They were just out of the Gryffindor common room when America remembered something vital - Russia. He felt like an idiot, how could he forget about that? America needed to make sure the Slavic nation wouldn’t come crashing the party (terrorist investigation. Whatever). 

“Yo, dudes,” he began casually. “Just wonderin’ and stuff, but what are the chances of Rus -” he caught himself just as he saw a beginning of a crowd stream down the hallway “- Braginsky showing up here?” 

The three other nations groaned. They had not been exempt from the extreme paranoia that America had gone through the past few decades. But, as he tried telling them, it’s not paranoia if they’re out to get you. They didn’t listen to his - dare he say brilliant - logic. 

“This again?” England made a weird sound of exasperation that was somewhere between a groan, a sigh, and a growl. It was an interesting combination. 

“Listen, it’s a genuine concern -” 

“Is it really, Al?” Canada tried to ask with a placating smile. Please, as if he could fall for that. 

“Yes!” They groaned again. Really, they were just being dramatic. He wasn’t  _ that _ bad. “Watch him show up with Durmstrang and derail this whole thing!” 

“Alfred,” France began with a heavy sigh, “Braginsky would not come here.” 

“And why’s that?” 

“Maybe because he said this was a waste of time?” Canada grumbled under his breath. America ignored him.

“Russia just got its own school, Alfred,” England explained with an irritated scowl. “And Durmstrang is in Norway.”

“Yeah, but don’t Russian purebloods or something head over to Durmstrang?” America attempted to defend his train of thought. 

“How come you know that, but you don’t know who the Malfoys are?” 

“Because I’m special like that.” 

“Sure are,” Canada snarked. What a loving brother. 

“Well,” France cut in, “if you used that logic, Spain would be arriving with Beauxbatons, which we all know he won’t.”

America had to laugh at that. “But that’s for a completely different reason.” 

France gave him a contemplating look and chuckled lowly. “I never understood why you two never got along.” 

“Wait,” England said, “why wouldn’t Spain come here?” He definitely didn’t look disappointed, instead, he looked rather confused. As if he couldn’t fathom why one of his former rivals would pass up a chance to get under his skin. America had to suppress rolling his eyes - the entire world didn’t revolve around him (anymore, at the very least). Was that what people thought he acted like?

Oh god. 

He was turning into England. 

Existential crisis aside, he focused on the conversation at hand.  _ “Mes amis Espagne et Amérique  _ never liked each other,” France said by way of explanation to England’s question. America was pretty sure he kept his explanation purposely vague to piss off England because France definitely knew more than he was letting on. 

Canada gave him a quizzical look, which was probably fair. Spain and America - two somewhat idiotic nations with sunny dispositions? Why wouldn’t they get along? 

If America was being honest, he had no idea. “I unnerve him, apparently,” America said. Both Canada and England snorted, and he tried not to take offense. He could be scary if he wanted! The world just wasn’t ready for it, that’s all…

_ “Non,  _ you don’t  _ unnerve  _ him,” France corrected, “he just doesn’t trust you.” 

“That’s not too hard to believe,” Canada reasoned. “Especially nowadays.” 

“What does  _ that  _ mean?” America jokingly asked. “You think I’m untrustworthy?” 

Canada's mouth quirked up into a smile. “You know I do.” 

America dramatically gasped and put his hands over his heart. “My own brother,” he cried. “The betrayal! I don’t know how I’ll take it!” 

“I’m sure you’ll manage.” The two North American brothers began to laugh, a nice change from the tense atmosphere that they created after their small argument.

“But about Carriedo -”

“Fernandez Carriedo,” France interrupted. America rolled his eyes at him - he really couldn’t care less about Spain’s last name(s). 

“Whatever,” America shrugged, “so about him - he never trusted me, even when I was a kid. He always was talking about how similar me and Arthur were and stuff. Don’t really know what his deal was.”

France laughed. “There’s more to it, you know,” he added with a look that said someone (Spain) repeatedly explained the issue at length. “Part of it is you kicking him out of the New World.” 

America waved it off, unconcerned. He’d heard this all before - from France, from Romano, from Spain himself (in a weird cheerful fashion). He’d heard this whole thing from a lot of people, and he was somewhat surprised that England and Canada hadn’t. America was even a little jealous (not that he would ever admit it). 

“Whatever,” he said as students began to trickle out of the Great Hall. “Guess we gotta go to class, dudes.” He somewhat pouted, he definitely didn’t want to sit and listen in on a year of useless lectures. The only good thing was that he didn’t have to take notes or really care about what’s going on in the class. 

Thank god for that. 

The four of them split off to go to their different classes and to not get lost in the ridiculously large and hard to navigate castle. 

“Alfred,” England called out to him, “do not cause a scene!” 

America just rolled his eyes and headed off the Mad-Eye Moody’s class. There wouldn’t be a reason to cause a scene, right? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aliveeeeee. I had to rewrite this chapter almost a dozen times and it's almost entirely filler, but I hope you guys enjoyed it!
> 
> So in this chapter, they talk about bringing weapons (namely: Alfred's gun) into a school. I absolutely hate that I have to say this (because apparently some people need it spelled out for them), but you should never, under any circumstance, bring a gun or any weapon into a school. EVER. 
> 
> Another important thing is that I changed something in the first chapter: "Immediately, Russia stood up with a childish smile. Everyone's eyes were drawn to the movement, especially America's who were narrowed in suspicion. "I'm going to stay neutral in this upcoming war," he declared. No surprise. England couldn't particularly blame him for that even if he wanted to. Russia's magical government had just been reinstated two years ago, along with his centuries-old magical school, and everything was incredibly unstable over there. The last thing they should do is entire a potentially costly war. "I would think everyone else should too. He contained it last time well enough and he can do it again--no use using such limited magical resources on something like this." Before England could even argue the point (if only to convince the others not to follow the Slavic nation's lead), America slammed his feet on the ground and stood up." 
> 
> That should be important or at least explained later on in the story. 
> 
> Anyways, the US is going to hell and schools are reopening. Updates are probably going to be slightly slower and all but I'm going to try and aim for at least once a week. Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or Harry Potter, and all rights go to their rightful owners. Constructive criticism is always welcome (this is my first published fanfic/story, so I'm trying to improve my writing). 
> 
> Thanks for leaving a kudos, comment, and/or bookmark - you guys are fucking awesome.


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